


One Foot In

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: The facts were these.Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.------Or: the Pushing Daisies AU that some people did ask for.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 129
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

Emma Swan is nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old when she realizes she is hopelessly, painfully, deliriously in love. 

It’s not a particularly pleasant feeling. 

Mostly because it happens suddenly, without much prompting and the object of her affection is currently spraying her in the face with the hose in his front yard. 

She yelps, water catching on her eyelashes and strands of her hair, but he just grins at her, taking a step forward to make sure her clothes are drenched through. Ingrid is going to kill both of them. Emma can almost hear Liam laughing somewhere. 

This, of course, is why she’s so frustrated by her sudden realization. 

Emma has been standing on the Jones’ front lawn for as long as she can remember – directly opposite of her own front lawn and close enough that Ingrid can still yell for her to come home when dinner is ready. Or when there’s pie. There’s almost always pie. 

Emma’s friendship with Killian Jones is not much more than happenstance and convenience. He lives across the street, with his brother in a great, big house with stained glass windows that paint the inside of the living room different colors when the sun sets. They met by mistake, Emma drawing with chalk at the end of the driveway and he was watering the lawn and dared to disturb her masterpiece. 

She threw chalk at him. 

It went from there. They talked and yelled and Emma may have stomped her foot more than once regarding the destroyed drawings, but Killian picks up the broken pieces of chalk and offers her one and they come up with a rather stunning visual of a futuristic outer space world with some kind of monorail system. The engineering is very impressive. 

And they don’t ever really stop. They dart back and forth across the street for years, afternoons spent constructing spaceships out of cardboard boxes Liam brought home from work and evenings in the kitchen with Ingrid while she lets them test a new flavor of pie she’s experimenting with. They watch movies and celebrate birthdays and there’s a secret handshake because _of course_ there’s a secret handshake, and Emma tells Killian she sometimes wonders what happened to her real parents and Killian tells Emma he’s scared Liam is going to disappear like his dad did. 

She shouldn’t love him. 

And yet, at nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old, Killian Jones is quite possibly the most important person in Emma’s life. 

Except Ingrid. Because she makes all that pie. 

Killian is quiet – at least at first, soft-spoken words, but with a certainty that rings of clarity and confidence and it hadn’t taken long for him to grow a little bolder with Emma around. He laughs easier as the years go on, smile wide and, usually, only for her. His hair is almost always too long, dark strands that drift dangerously close to his eyebrows and a gaze that Emma also seems to covet. 

She doesn’t realize that yet, because she’s nine and she doesn’t know what covet means, but, eventually, it will all make sense. 

And eventually, she will regret not telling Killian Jones that he’s her best friend and she’s absolutely, positively in love with him. 

But Emma is nine and she believes she’s got the rest of her life and the rest of Killian’s life and she hasn’t allowed a little thing like death to even begin to enter the back corners of her mind. 

That will change soon. 

“Killian Jones, I am going to murder you,” she shouts, lunging forward. He laughs even louder when her feet skid on the slick grass, a flash of blue eyes and that smile that, even then, Emma considers hers and hers alone. 

“That’s not very nice, Swan. You’re the one who got in the way of all my work.”  
  
“Your work?”  
  
He nods seriously, as if he’s not directing the hose directly at her feet now and she’s going to have to throw these jeans away. They’ll never dry. “Did you not see that list of chores Liam left? Making sure the lawn wasn’t dry was one of them.”  
  
“It’s a lawn, how dry can it be?”  
  
“I didn’t ask.”  
  
“Didn’t you want to know?”

“Maybe,” Killian admits, flicking his wrist up to move the water so it hits Emma’s stomach and she gasps when some of the air gets knocked out of her. “But you came over here.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“And what? You’re here aren’t you?”

It’s impossible for Emma to realize what exactly that question means in the moment, but she’s also just realized she’s in love with Killian, so her heart does a fairly good job of attempting to beat its way out of her chest. 

He drops the hose. 

“You could have told me you had stuff to do.”

“But you were here,” he says again, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. It kind of is. She can’t remember a single time he told her to leave. 

Even when she was the new kid in school – after she and Ingrid first moved to Storybrooke and Emma heard the whispers because she didn’t have real parents and no mom to make her lunch, but Killian just bumped his shoulder against hers and flashed her half a smile. He held her hand when they walked into school. 

Killian never cared about cooties. 

Or anything except Emma. 

“Yeah,” Emma mumbles. She digs her toes into the mud under her, the soft squelch of it almost matching up with the erratic rhythm of her pulse. “Well…”

He practically beams. 

And Emma isn’t sure what’s going to happen next because she’s never encountered a moment quite like this, but she can hear Liam’s footsteps and grumblings about the state of the lawn and—  
  
“Killian, if you’re just going to stand around all day...” he starts, but his eyes dart towards Emma as soon as she moves her foot again and the look on his face is unreadable. Particularly to a nine-year-old coming to terms with the idea of first love. “Oh,” Liam says. “Hey, Emma, I didn’t know you were here.”  
  
She shrugs. “I was going to ride my bike, but then Killian thought he was funny.”  
  
Liam’s expression changes again, more emotions Emma is not nearly old enough to understand or deal with, but it will, eventually, be that kind of day. At the moment, however, it’s sunny and there are a few clouds in the sky. The perfect day to race down the hill on the other side of town.

“How many times in a row have you beat Killian?” Liam asks knowingly, and Emma laughs before she can continue to consider whatever he’s doing with his face. 

“Forty seven.”  
  
“Oh, that’s not true, at all,” Killian shouts, ducking down to grab the hose again. Liam’s quicker than him, though grabbing him around the waist and pinning him against his chest. “God, Liam, let go of me!”

“Nah, little brother—”  
  
“—Younger brother!”  
  
“Semantics.”  
  
“Stop trying to show off!”

Emma is still laughing, her sides feeling as if they’ll split from the force of it. Killian scowls at her when she doesn’t come to his immediate aid, but her eyes dart back towards Liam. He nods. And it only takes a few moments for Killian to realize what’s going to happen, more flailing limbs and shouted protests. 

“Swan, Swan, Swan,” he chants, a nickname that isn’t really a nickname, but might be his in the way the smile is hers and Emma shakes her head when she grabs the water hose. “Don’t do that, that’s not even fair!”  
  
“I know it’s not,” she says. “But you were being a great, big giant jerk before and Ingrid’s going to be mad my jeans are all muddy.”  
  
“You should have dodged better then!”  
  
“Ah, c’mon now, little brother,” Liam chastises, still holding him around the waist and he’s probably bruised from Killian’s elbows. “That’s not hospitable at all. Emma’s a guest in our front lawn and you went and ruined her whole outfit.”  
  
Killian groans, but the sound turns into a yelp as soon as the water hits his feet and he realizes how cold it is. Emma widens her eyes. “Swan is not a guest,” he argues. 

Emma briefly wonders if her eyes can actually fall out of her face. It feels as if they’re about to, that particular proclamation ricocheting around her brain and her subconscious until she’s certain it’s the only words she’ll ever hear again. 

Killian blinks when Emma doesn’t say anything – or move the hose away from his feet. “You haven’t beaten me down the hill forty-seven times,” he mutters. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

And sprays him directly in the chest. 

There’s no way to really avoid Liam in this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, more laughter and tangled limbs, Killian’s hair sticking to his forehead and the shell of his left ear when Emma moves the water again. And for a few seconds Emma thinks she’s winning whatever unspoken battle they’ve staged here, but Killian’s always been a little shifty and and he turns quickly enough that he’s able to sneak out of Liam’s grasp. 

He moves towards her quicker than she’s ready for, tugging the hose out of her hands with an almost triumphant noise. 

“You’ve got to be faster than that, Swan,” Killian grins, waving the hose through the air until it feels as if Emma’s standing in a rainstorm. 

“You are the worst!”  
  
“Tell the truth about the hill!”  
  
“I am,” Emma yells, sniffling when the water threatens to find its way up her nose. “Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!”  
  
Killian shakes his head, dodging what Emma thought was a particularly well-placed kick at his ankles. “No, you’re not. You like me way too much to kill me.”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
The words feel heavy on her tongue, despite the laughter still clinging to Killian’s voice and Liam’s rather pitiful attempts to get back on his feet after falling in the mud. Emma swallows, desperate to understand what is happening in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t look away from her. 

He keeps staring and the water keeps running, slowing slightly because they’re probably emptying the Storybrooke reservoir at this point. 

“I don’t know about that, Swan,” Killian says, leaning towards her. Emma gets the distinct impression he doesn’t mean to do that. 

“Liar, liar.”  
  
“I’m not the one lying. Forty seven? That’s impossible.”  
  
“If you think you’re winning, you should have been keeping better track.”

That catches him by surprise, a quick bark of laughter and water splashing on Emma’s shin when he jerks his hand to the side. “Sorry, sorry,” Killian mumbles when he notices the look on her face. “That one really wasn’t on purpose.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, the sarcasm obvious in his voice and the half a smile on his face. Liam has finally stood up. “How many times do you think we’ve raced down the hill?” she presses, moving forward to push her finger into his water-soaked shirt. 

That gets him to blink. 

She takes that as another victory. 

“Way more than forty seven,” Killian answers. “And I win most of the time.”  
  
Emma stamps her foot – which gives Killian just enough time to wrap his own fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from him and pinning it against her side and the water is absolutely getting colder when he holds the hose directly above her head. 

“Say it’s not forty seven,” he laughs. Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together tightly as if she’s refusing to give federal testimony. 

Liam appears to have given up on even trying to salvage the situation. 

“It’s not forty seven, Swan,” Killian continues. “I’ll give you...maybe thirty two, tops.”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Thirty five?”  
  
“I have beaten you down that hill forty seven times Killian Jones and that’s only in the last year since I started keeping track.”  
  
“You’ve only been keeping track for the last year?”  
  
“You never kept track to begin with!”  
  
“She’s got a point, little brother,” Liam muses. He’s sitting on the far side of the lawn now, doing something that may actually be pulling weeds and no one could have taken better care of that house than Liam did. 

“Oh, shut up,” Killian grumbles. He snaps his head back towards Emma, mouth twisted and eyes slightly narrowed. “Alright, so you started counting this year. I’ll give you that you’ve won most of the races, but I demand a recount for the rest of the summer.”  
  
Emma scoffs. “No way. You’re only mad because you didn’t know you were losing and—”  
  
“—And you were playing a game I didn’t know we were playing, Swan. So, either you agree to the terms or we keep up this...whatever we’re doing.”  
  
“You being a jerk,” she mumbles, and that time her kick lands on his ankle. Killian lets out a gasp of pain, expression shifting slightly and they’re both drenched, water falling from their clothes and their hair and everything feels slightly heavier than it had a few moments before.

It’s not a feeling that belongs in summer vacation. 

Killian hums, the tips of his ears going red and Emma learned that particular tell when she was seven and he tried to tell Liam he hadn’t gotten in trouble for fighting with that kid on the playground. The kid on the playground had been making fun of Emma’s distinct lack of parents. 

“Forty seven though?” he asks. “Really?”  
  
“Really, really,” Emma promises. “But I’m...we could start a new count. If you want.”

“Yeah?”  
  
“We’ve got all summer, right?”  
  
“And forever,” Killian says with a shrug, another string of words that seems to take up residence in every corner of Emma’s brain and she feels her lips part slightly. It’s her body’s natural reaction to try and keep breathing. 

She’s stopped breathing at some point. 

And someone else is calling her name. 

“Emma Swan,” Ingrid yells, leaning out the front door of the house across the street and the smell of lemon meringue is already obvious. “If you are done destroying all your clothes, then I think it’s time for you to come back over here and eat some lunch!”

Emma’s shoulders sag with the weight of her disappointment – an overreaction in the moment, but eventually it will seem like the most reasonable thing she’s ever done. “Do I have to?”  
  
“In twenty-four seconds or less.”  
  
“Fine,” Emma sighs. She glances back at Killian before she turns towards home, the smile still on his face and a piece of hair seemingly stuck to his forehead. He waves a dismissive hand through the air at the interruption, as if they do have all the time in the world. 

“I’ve got to help Liam anyway. But, uh...after? We could…”  
  
“There’s pie,” Emma finishes sharply. “I mean...it smells like pie? You could come over and then we could go.”  
  
“Ok.”

Liam makes a ridiculous noise a few feet away – disbelieving and adult and Emma ignores it because she’s nine and cutting into her twenty-four seconds of travel time across the street.  
  
“Emma,” Ingrid calls again. “Now!”

“Right, right, right, I’m coming. But…” She glances at Killian and she’s not sure why she feels like she has to make sure, but it feels important and—

“I’ll see you later, Swan,” he says. “I’m sorry about your jeans.”

“That’s ok.”  
Ingrid is shaking the screen door now. “Emma!”

“Ok, ok! I’ll see you later.”

Ingrid takes one look at the state of her as soon as she gets across the street, lets out a knowing laugh and mumbles something that sounds a lot like _we should just buy new clothes every week_ under her breath. “Go upstairs and try and get some of the mud out of your toes before you drag it across the entire house, ok?”  
  
Emma nods, a blur of water-logged fabric and muddy footprints. She’s in the bathroom when she hears it, only a few moments later and nothing has really changed, but it suddenly feels as if everything has been flipped upside down, and Emma cannot possibly be expected to keep up with all of these emotions. Or sounds. 

It’s a crash — loud and jarring and then absolute, overwhelming silence. 

She freezes, heart sputtering in her chest and it’s impossible to know how she _knows_ , but Emma knows and something is wrong. 

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about her jeans, sprinting back down the stairs and skidding into the kitchen and Ingrid is lying on the tiled ground, the pie splayed out around her when she dropped it. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, knowing it’s pointless. She doesn’t know how she knows that either, but that appears to be the theme of the day and the step she takes forward is alarmingly shaky. “Ingrid,” she repeats. “Are you…”

She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence. 

It’s obvious anyway. 

Ingrid is dead. 

Emma exhales, tears in her eyes and disbelief churning in the pit of her stomach where, just a few moments ago, there were butterflies and the certainty that everything was going to be alright forever and ever. 

She tilts her head, as if that will change the scene in front of her and the combined scent of lemon and drying mud is particularly disgusting. 

“Ingrid?” Emma repeats, moving towards her as if there are magnets and supernatural forces involved. There are. It’ll just take a moment for her to realize that. 

Dropping to her knees, she ignores the pain that shoots up both her legs when she lands on the floor and Emma doesn’t ever actually cry. The tears are there, but they don’t spill over onto her cheeks. They stay in her eyes and, possibly, her soul and eventually that will feel like a very large sign. 

With neon lights and sound effects. 

In the moment though, it’s just another thing in an increasingly thing-filled situation and part of her wants to call for Killian. Most of her wants to call for Killian. 

But Emma’s mouth doesn’t appear to be working anymore, breathing a very particular challenge and Ingrid isn’t her mom. Ingrid isn’t even her officially adopted mom yet, that’s a work in progress and Emma’s fairly certain Liam did something that may help and there were suits involved and Killian stayed at their house that day while Ingrid baked something. 

Emma inhales sharply through her nose, Ingrid’s eyes already a little glazed over and staring at absolutely nothing and, if asked, she would have no idea why she does what she does next. Reaching out a finger, she pokes Ingrid in the shoulder, fingertip just barely skimming her skin.

Ingrid blinks, exactly, three times and sits up as normal as ever. 

She’s very clearly breathing. 

Emma might not be. And she’s worried about the state of her eyes again. 

“Did you get mud in here?” Ingrid asks, like that’s an entirely reasonable question and Emma is still frozen. Her mind can’t keep up with the moment or the feelings coursing through her veins, a mix of terror and surprise and happiness, plus whatever she may still be feeling for Killian and she still wishes Killian were in the kitchen with her. “Must have slipped,” Ingrid continues. She shakes her head, clearly unaware of what just happened and Emma is still doing her best to keep breathing. The pain in her side makes it clear it’s not working very well. 

“Emma,” Ingrid says lightly, leaning close enough that Emma jerks away out of instinct. That will eventually prove important. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong, sweetheart?”  
  
“Nothing,” Emma mumbles. The word comes out far too quickly though, less a word than just a jumble of syllables and—”I just...heard you fall.”  
  
“Because of the mud. Did you not even change your clothes yet?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. Her throat feels far too small and far too big, all at the same time. “No, I…”  
  
“Well, go back upstairs and make sure you wash behind your ears and—” Ingrid glances around, grabbing a handful of plastic bags and pushing them into Emma’s chest. Her fingers never touch Emma. “Just throw them in here. I think we’ve moved past salvageable on that front. I swear, the messes you and that Jones boy get into should be documented for—”

It annoys Emma that no one will finish their sentences. 

But the timer on the oven dings, wholly unnecessary given the pie that’s still on the kitchen floor and Emma’s annoyance ebbs as soon as she hears the first shout. That’s not the right word. It’s less of a shout and more like absolute and complete anguish. 

Her head snaps towards the open window, the same one that looks directly onto the Jones’ front lawn and she can barely make out the top of Killian’s hair. He’s kneeling on the ground, clearly not worried about the state of his jeans or the mud that’s likely working its way into the fibers, gripping something. 

It takes Emma exactly two seconds, one gasp and three blinks to realize what he’s holding — Liam, dead. 

The tears that land on her cheek feel like brands, hot and emotional and she’s moving before she realizes, dashing around Ingrid and across the street. A car honks at her when she runs in front of it, but Emma doesn’t slow down and Killian’s still yelling and Liam is very obviously dead.

He looks just like Ingrid. 

Or just like Ingrid did before Emma touched her. 

Because Emma touched Ingrid back to life. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Killian stammers, eyes already rimmed red and the shake in his voice seems to rattle down Emma’s spine. “He was there and it was fine and then I...he wasn’t and he just...he fell over and it was…”

He lets out another choked sob, falling towards Emma’s shoulders like those pesky magnets are involved again and the only thought in her head is to hold onto him, like she’s trying to keep him there. Permanently. 

She’s got no idea how long they stay there, and it’s impossible to tell Killian’s tears from the rest of the water in Emma’s shirt. She can hear Ingrid on the phone, quiet and slightly frantic and the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later. 

There’s no explanation. 

It makes no sense.  
  
Because Liam Jones was young and healthy and fully capable of keeping his brother pinned to his side so Emma could point the hose directly at his feet. A dead Liam Jones makes no sense.

And Emma doesn’t say much for the rest of the day, just keeps staring ahead and trying to breath, her fingers laced with Killian’s for however many hours it takes for his uncles to show up.

“Killian,” a man yells. He jogs up the front steps of the porch, an oversized coat hanging off his shoulders and something that may be several earrings glittering under the street lights. 

Emma dimly remembers Ingrid tearing through Liam’s paperwork that afternoon, trying to find someone to come watch Killian — and the result is two uncles, one named Nemo and the other Shakespeare, who’d spent most of their lives as part of a traveling acting troupe. They’re eccentric in a way that's fascinating at any time, let alone one that includes a dead Liam Jones, but Killian rushes towards the man who called his name. 

His whole body shakes with the force of his tears. 

And, for the first time since she moved to Storybrooke, Emma feels out of place sitting on that side of the street, not sure she understands the weight of _wrong_ that seems intent on dragging her into the Earth. 

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright,” the man continues. He barely pays any attention to Emma when she moves, but the other one, wearing his own ridiculous coat that looks like it came directly from the Navy, casts her a speculative glance. 

She tries to smile. 

She does. But it’s been a seemingly endless day and they never rode their bikes down the hill. 

Emma can’t believe she’s worried about riding her bike down the hill. 

“I think it’s about time you got some rest, huh?” Ingrid asks. She’s standing in the doorframe, apron still tied around her waist from that afternoon, but it doesn’t smell like pie in the house. 

It smells like mud and ending and Emma is tired. That must be it. 

She nods, and for a few minutes it’s normal and almost good and the lingering taste of toothpaste in her mouth as she climbs into bed is almost comforting. But then it’s Ingrid stepping into her room and tugging the blankets up under her chin and the kiss she places on Emma’s forehead will linger for years. 

It’s the last thing she ever does.

Ingrid kisses Emma and her whole body goes taut, eyes getting that same glazed look as she falls directly onto her back. 

Emma doesn’t gasp. 

She blinks, opening her mouth and leaning over the side of the bed like this is one, long practical joke. Ingrid doesn’t move. And Emma has had enough experience with dead bodies in the last twelve hours to realize she’s facing her third. 

Or, well, second. Technically. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, not expecting an answer, but frustrated all the same. She reaches her hand out, pushing and prodding and touching and none of it works. She uses two fingers and three, tries punching Ingrid’s shoulder, but nothing happens. 

Ingrid is dead. 

And Emma runs – directly across the street. 

The Navy man opens the door, a little starling with dark eyes and shaved head, but Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks again, shoulders shaking with the effort of running and figuring out what’s going on and he doesn’t object when she falls towards him. He wraps his arms around her middle and lets her cry. 

The rest is a whirlwind of phone calls and suitcases and arrangements that Emma is not capable of making. The state, however, is more than happy to do just that – a car set to pick her up after the funeral that will bring her to a group home in a different state and promises that _everything will be fine_ , but Emma doesn’t trust much of anything anymore, particularly after Ingrid was alive. Again. 

And then dead. Again. 

None of it makes sense. 

But that’s for a different moment and a different day to understand and in this moment Emma can’t help but keep glancing across the cemetery towards Killian, fidgeting in a suit with splotchy cheeks and shoes she knows don’t fit. 

He nods towards the patch of grass in between the two services, hand stuffed in his pocket. His tie is slightly off center. 

The state had to buy Emma a black dress. 

“You’re leaving,” Killian whispers, not a question, but a statement of fact and Emma’s neck aches when she nods in response. 

“I’ll be back.”  
  
“I don’t want you to leave.”  
  
“I don’t want to either. I’m...I’m sorry.”  
  
Killian tilts his head, confusion settling into the space between his eyebrows. “Why?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that. She has suspicions. And she’ll figure them out later, but right then, nine years,  
six months, fifteen days and, approximately, ten hours old, Emma Swan only has the certainty that she loves Killian Jones more than anything in the world and she doesn’t want to walk away from him. 

So she takes a step forward. 

As first kisses go, it’s probably not the greatest. There are two funerals happening and those suspicions lingering in the back of Emma’s mind make the air around her feel heavy, but she’s only a little certain she won’t ever be back and the rest of the reasons don’t matter. 

She tilts her head up, a quick brush of her lips over Killian’s. He doesn’t pull back, but it’s nothing more than that, until his thumb brushes over the curve of Emma’s cheek, catching a tear on the pad and the smile he gives her when she pulls back echoes in her memories for the next twenty years. 

“Ms. Swan,” a state official says brusquely and it must be time. 

She nods another, still shaky and uncomfortable, but that may just be the state of her lungs and the ability of either one of her legs to hold up her weight. Killian hasn’t moved his thumb. He doesn’t appear to want to. 

“I’m going to see you again,” he says, a promise Emma tries desperately to believe. It doesn’t work, the guilt and the weight in the very center of her is too big and too much and nothing has made sense, so it only makes sense that she doesn’t respond. 

She will, eventually, regret that. 

Because Emma Swan doesn’t ever see Killian Jones again. 

At least not while they’re both alive. 

* * *

Emma wakes with a start, glancing around her room like she’ll see several different ghosts spying on her. It feels that way, has for the last three days when she first started having these dreams and really the whole thing can fuck right off. 

It hasn’t happened in years – nightmares about that day and that night and how cold Ingrid looked when the EMTs carried her out of the house, the same ones who’d showed up for Liam. 

The irony of that was not lost on a grown-up Emma. 

Because a grown-up Emma was also a vaguely jaded Emma and she stopped having nightmares about Killian Jones and death years ago. 

Her subconscious does not seem to care. 

Her subconscious seems intent on driving her insane. 

Emma never went back to Storybrooke. She left with that state worker, lips still tingling from a first kiss that in retrospect would have been adorable if there wasn’t so much goddamn death involved, but Emma barely had time to linger on that thought before she was shipped to the first of nearly a dozen group homes and foster homes and less-than-pleasant foster families. 

It went on that way for years nothing permanent and everything disappointing and Emma has kept a fairly wide berth between herself and lingering human contact. Because, well, here’s the thing; Emma Swan is not exactly normal. 

In that she’s decidedly unnormal. 

As unnormal as it is possible to be. 

Because Emma Swan can wake the dead. 

And kill them again. 

It takes Emma three houses and one birthday without anyone acknowledging it is her birthday to grow disillusioned enough that it somehow makes sense to start conducting a few macabre science experiments. She’d always had her suspicions after that night and things that timed up too well to be coincidence and Emma starts with a dead bird she finds on the side of the road. 

It’s gross. 

The whole thing is gross, but she can’t shake this feeling that something is _wrong_ with her, some fundamental issue that makes her unlovable and unfixable and she’s got to do something or she’s positive she’s going to shake herself out of her own skin. 

So she starts with the bird and it flies away and something else falls out of a tree and it might be a raccoon, but Emma’s never seen a raccoon. So, she doesn’t spend too long thinking about it before she runs away. 

And the houses keep coming and the experiments keep being...gross and Emma realizes, when she’s twelve years, ten months, sixteen days and nine hours old, that there are some rules to all of this. 

They’re relatively simple, but they’re unbreakable. 

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, dead, forever. Keep a dead thing alive for more than one minute and something else has to die in its place. 

It’s then that twelve-year-old Emma realizes magic never comes for free. There’s always some kind of price. And she never looks for Killian Jones. 

She never goes back home. 

She moves – house to house and family to family, in name at least, until she ages out of the system and scrapes together enough money waitressing to pay the rent on the shoebox of an apartment she can live in. She moves out of that apartment eventually too. 

The concept of roots kind of freaks Emma out. 

Everything kind of freaks Emma out. 

She assumes it’s because she’s wrong. 

At, like, the most basic level. 

She does a good job of hiding it. Most of the time. She’s grown up and the years have passed, as the years have a tendency to do, and she’d saved up enough from those first few waitressing jobs that it only makes sense to open up her own restaurant and Emma may hate roots, but she’s still kind of a sentimental loser and her restaurant is on the other side of the county from Storybrooke and only serves pie. 

Damn good pie, but only pie. 

It’s kitschy. It kind of balances out all the death in her life. 

Emma shakes her head, still sitting upright in bed and she’d left the TV in the corner of the room the night before. The news is on now, some perfectly coiffed broadcaster talking about a murder victim and _reward for any information_ and Emma mutters a curse under her breath because she knows it’s only a matter of time until—

Her ringtone is loud enough that she’s momentarily concerned about the effect it will have on her wallpaper. 

Ruby is already talking by the time Emma swipes her thumb over the phone screen. 

“Em, Em, Em, Em, where are you? Are you home? Are you at work? Are you on your way to your very short commute from your home to your work?”  
  
“Are you breathing?”  
  
“No, this is more important than breathing.”

Emma slumps into the small mound of pillows behind her. There is only one thing Ruby would consider more important than breathing – money. 

The story of how Emma Swan meets Ruby Lucas is fraught with miscues and miscreants, but the important thing is that a perp Ruby was chasing over the _goddamn top of buildings_ missed a step and suddenly fell directly into the alley behind Emma’s restaurant. 

Where she was taking the garbage out. 

He died rather instantly. And then...was less dead once he slammed his hand on Emma’s forearm. All of which Ruby saw. 

Emma managed to swat at his head before he took off back down the block, but the damage was done as they say. Not Ruby. Obviously. She claims it was fate and meant to be and, well, it’s much easier for a private investigator to figure out who killed murder victims when she’s got a partner who can wake them up and ask them. 

“What’s the gig?” Emma asks, mostly because sometimes she likes to use the wrong lingo on purpose if only to get Ruby to make that put-upon sigh. It works. 

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
  
“Listen, Rubes, I’ve got, just like, a ton of mail order...orders waiting for me, so if this is going to take several thousand years then…”  
  
“Did you just call them mail order orders?”  
  
“That makes sense.”  
  
“Ehhhhh.”  
  
“Give me a break, I literally woke up five minutes before you called.”  
  
Ruby doesn’t sigh at that. She doesn’t say anything. That’s more concerning. “You just woke up?” she asks, a note of concern in her voice that probably shouldn’t feel as if it affects several of Emma’s internal organs. “Was...more weird dreams?”  
  
Emma makes a noncommittal noise – mostly to save face and partly because she’s been incredibly vague with Ruby about the dreams, only mentioning them when her partner pointed out how _dead tired_ she looked during a trip to the morgue earlier this week. Ruby thought she was far funnier than she was. 

“Emma,” Ruby chides, drawing out her name until it feels like a reprimand and punishment. “C’mon, seriously. What are you even dreaming about?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Is your eye twitching?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Your eye twitches when you lie,” Ruby says. “Like every single time. It may be your most giving tell, honestly.”  
  
“How many tells do you think I have?”  
  
“I know you have, at least, five. The eye twitch is the most obvious, but sometimes you play with your hair and you scrunch your nose. Plus that foot bobbing thing and, uh...that’s four, right?” Emma makes another noise, eyes flitting back towards the TV and she can’t shake the feeling she should know something about whatever the story is. “Damn,” Ruby huffs. “I can’t think of the last one. You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’re trying to distract me and it’s not working.”  
  
“Did it not?” Emma laughs. 

“No. Kind of. But no. Listen to me, do you want to get paid or not?”  
  
“I thought we already talked about all the mail order orders I have. There are just...a questionable number of rotten strawberries in my walk-in.”  
  
“It’s weird that you use rotten fruit.”  
  
Emma shrugs. And tugs her hair over her shoulder. “Cheaper that way,” she explains, not for the first time. “Plus, it’s not like I’m eating my own pie.”  
  
“Can’t have your pie and eat it too?”

“I don’t think that’s the colloquialism you were looking for. And you’re still getting sidetracked. Does this have something to do with the body they’re talking about on the news?”

“If the body on the news is offering a five-figure reward for any information regarding his untimely demise.”  
  
Emma doesn’t usually react to Ruby’s blunt viewpoint of the world and its numerous dead bodies, but she can’t suppress the shiver that moves her body when she hears _his_ and something is wrong. 

“His? And did you say five figures?”

Ruby hums, sounding as if she’s already decided what to do with her share. “His. I promise that is the least interesting part. The interesting part is that he was found out by the old quarry on the other side of the county, you know right near the bottom of the—”

“Hill,” Emma finishes. “The bottom of the hill. That’s…”  
  
Her vision swims, memories and moments attacking from every angle until she has to glance at her arms to make sure she’s not sporting inexplicable bruises from the past. She’s not. 

Magic only goes so far, it seems. 

“Yeah,” Ruby says, confusion obvious in all four letters. “That’s exactly right. They say it looked pretty bad. Some kind of something gone wrong, but the town isn’t happy about it and they don’t like the limelight and the allusions that they’re a hotbed for murder so I guess the mayor’s offered up a bunch of money and—”  
  
“—What was the guy’s name?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The guy,” Emma repeats, and her voice scratches on the words. “You said it was a guy right? At the bottom of the hill? In Storybrooke?”  
  
Silence. 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. 

And Emma’s head snaps back towards the TV when they finish their report because services for the deceased are being held tomorrow and—  
  
“His name’s, well, it was, I guess, his name was Killian Jones,” Ruby says, and Emma doesn’t really hear the rest of it. 

She barely realizes she’s agreed to any of this until the local news ends, switches over to even crappier daytime programming and Emma has no idea how she gets through the day. She bakes. That’s kind of her thing. 

She bakes and comes up with ridiculous recipes and flavor combinations and the customers are happy and Ruby announces _I’ll see you tomorrow_ when she slams the door closed behind her nearly ten hours after it feels as if the world has ended. 

Killian Jones is dead. 

And Emma can’t seem to catch her breath. 

Ruby’s standing outside her car the next morning, two cups of coffee in her hand and an expectant smile on her face. “Your eye is twitching,” she says conversationally, handing Emma what better be a latte. It’s not. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Sure I don’t. I’m just paid to observe and critique—”  
  
“—No one is paying you to critique.”  
  
“Whatever,” Ruby shrugs, swinging open the passenger side door of Emma’s car. “Why the face about this place?”  
  
“I will tell you it’s less threatening when you rhyme.”  
  
Ruby scowls. “That was not intentional and mostly the fault of the limits of the English language. You lived there at one point, didn’t you?”

“Were you looking me up last night?” Emma balks, and her hand is shaking so hard it’s difficult to move the gear shift. 

“Please, don’t insult me like that. I looked you up as soon as I met you.”  
  
Emma jerks her head around, only to find Ruby grinning at her like several metaphorical cats. “Then why the third degree?”  
  
“There are no degrees here. There’s friendly curiosity, particularly when it comes to the state of your body and your ability to do what we’re going here to do.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
The lie is honestly almost offensive. Emma made sixteen pies the day before. One had five different kinds of berries in it. She tested a new crust recipe she’s been thinking about for years. 

Literally. Years. 

She’s so stressed out she’s not sure she even shut her eyes the night before. 

And that’s not the right word at all. 

She’s goodman terrified. 

She can’t believe Killian is dead. 

Ruby throws her whole head back when she laughs, the sound filling the entire car and lingering on air molecules. “God, that was horrible,” she mutters. “Ok, let’s try it again. You know this guy?”  
  
“Small town.”  
  
“Not an answer.”  
  
“I knew him.”  
  
“In a personal sense?”

“Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma groans, and she can’t slump down in the seat while she’s driving. It’s definitely the most unfortunate thing that’s happened to her all day. She can’t imagine that will stay the same going forward. “I left Storybrooke when I was nine!”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh, yuh huh. Ok. So...what is it, childhood sweetheart?”  
  
“You know me better than that.”  
  
“I thought I did until I saw the explosion in your kitchen yesterday and now I’m starting to think you and our body were a little—”  
  
“—Can we not call him a body,” Emma snaps, knuckles going white when she grips the steering wheel too tight. 

Ruby blinks. “Still sweet on him?”

“I was nine.”  
  
“That’s not an answer.”  
  
“No,” Emma says, and she doesn’t expect that to hurt nearly as much as it does. That’s insane. This whole thing is insane. She wrote down conversational ideas for her sixty seconds with Killian somewhere around four in the morning. 

Every one was worse than the last. 

“No?” Ruby echoes. “You should tell that to your right arm.”  
  
Emma groans, not taking her eyes off the road because she can feel her arm shaking against her side. Her elbow keeps digging into her rib. “This is going to be fine,” Emma mumbles. Ruby does not look convinced. 

That’s probably for the best since Emma can’t control her limbs – or her mind. 

And she might not be nine years old anymore, but she’s fairly certain part of her never really stopped loving Killian Jones and the rest of her never forgot Killian Jones and they don’t hit any traffic on their way to Storybrooke. 

She figures that’s some kind of sign. 

* * *

They come up with some excuse for the funeral director – a portly man Emma doesn’t recognize who doesn’t recognize Emma because she hasn’t been in Storybrooke in nearly twenty years – and he directs them towards the viewing parlor. 

The whole thing is sterile and unfeeling and Emma keeps exhaling dramatically. 

“They think he was into some shady stuff you know,” the man says, voice dropping low like he’s sharing secrets with them. Ruby arches an eyebrow. 

“That so?”  
  
“Oh yeah, yeah, very messy crime scene. Guess he came out on the short end.”  
  
Emma's stomach turns, mouth dropping open. “And no one else was found there? Just Kill—Mr. Jones? He was the only victim?”  
  
“You think the police are hiding more dead bodies?”  
  
“That’s not what I said.”  
  
“What she means,” Ruby says, stepping in between the two of them before Emma can throw the first punch, “is that it seems strange that there would be a sign of struggle and nothing else. No other evidence of other people around?”  
  
The funeral director does not look impressed. “That’s not my area,” he shrugs. “All I know is there’s a reward and the mayor’s going crazy trying to keep the cameras out of here and the kid’s uncles are besides themselves.”  
  
Emma has to count to ten in her head to make sure her exhale doesn’t fly out of her. Ruby’s gaze flashes her direction. “Right,” she says. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

There are a few more words exchanged – and possibly a few well-placed bills, but Emma ignores all of that, taking in the scene and there’s an actual sign at the far end of the room. 

_In Loving Memory of Killian Jones_. 

Emma drags her hand over her face, blinking back whatever has suddenly appeared in her eyes and she resolutely refuses to believe they’re tears. 

She can’t believe he’s dead. 

“Em,” Ruby calls. “We’re uh...we’ve only got a couple minutes here.”

Emma nods brusquely, avoiding the slightly accusatory stare of the funeral director and—”What if I did this on my own?” 

“What?”  
  
“My own. Just...there’s, you know, years and a familiarity there and he’s...well, it may be weird to wake him up and stun him like that.”  
  
Ruby’s eyebrows set several different records for height and movement. “You think we’re going to stun him? And did you say wake him up? He’s not asleep, Em.”  
  
“I know, I know, but...just...I think this is for the best.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“You keep saying that.”  
  
“That’s because I can’t figure out another string of words to use in this situation. You know you can’t stay in there long.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You’ve got sixty seconds to figure out who killed this guy.”

Emma shivers. And Ruby notices. Always. Perpetually. Infuriatingly. “I know,” Emma says again. “Trust me, it’s...I’ll be in and out and we’ll be collecting money in no time.”  
  
“Announce that a little louder.”  
  
Emma sighs, Ruby staring at her like she’s taking stock or emotional inventory. It seems to last forever and Emma does her best to keep her breathing even when Ruby leans around her to open the viewing room door. 

“Sixty seconds,” she repeats. “That’s it.”  
  
“Aye aye.”

The door sounds impossibly loud when it closes behind Emma, another sound that makes her jump and sigh and she’s an absolute disaster. Or at least she thought she was until she turned and saw the coffin and then it feels a little like melting and a bit like freezing and it’s a strange combination, particularly when she’s also fairly certain her lungs have disappeared entirely. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, desperate for some trace of confidence or courage. It’s disappointing when she can’t find any. 

“C’mon, Swan,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the person on the other side of the room because that’s exactly what the person on the other side of the room would say to her.

Emma takes a step forward, wobbly at best and petrified at worst, lifting the coffin lid, and her lungs reappear in a miracle of modern science as soon as her eyes land on him. 

“Oh,” Emma breathes, and that’s about all there is to it. 

He’s wearing a suit, hair even longer than it was when he was ten years old. It curls slightly, just behind his ears, and there’s a dusting of scruff on his face. His hand is folded over his chest, only one hand, making his jacket twist slightly and Emma feels as if her throat is closing. 

He’s got an earring in one ear. 

It makes her laugh. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles. “You look like a pirate.”

She closes her eyes again when he doesn’t answer – she refuses to acknowledge why he doesn’t answer, but she’s got a job and justice needs to be served or something. Ruby probably has several dozen new pairs of shoes she’s already preordered. 

Bobbing on her feet as soon as she’s within arms-length of the coffin, Emma shimmies her shoulders, like that will help shake free the nerves clinging to the base of her spine. Her lips feel far too dry, breathing far too erratic, but she’s on limited time and she’s got to touch him. 

She’s got no idea where to touch him. 

She scans his face, trying to find a spot that isn’t too forward or too weird and her eyes land on the scar on his cheek – a souvenir of a race down the hill and faulty brakes and Liam had been white as a sheet when they came home with Emma’s blood-stained sweatshirt pressed against Killian’s cheek. 

“Ok,” she nods, and talking to herself is definitely a sign of impending insanity, but she kind of hopes she’s already gone insane and—

He moves far quicker than she expected. 

Emma’s no more than brushed her fingertips over the curve of his cheek than he’s throwing his arm out in the minimal space between them, his wrist colliding painfully with her stomach. She stumbles backwards, barely keeping her balance and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and when she looks up he’s brandishing a chair at her. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Killian shouts, and Emma does her best to quiet him without taking a rogue chair to the side of her legs. 

“Listen, listen, listen. Do you remember when you were a kid there was a girl who lived across the street from you?”  
  
He doesn’t immediately put the chair down. He licks his lips instead. And the tips of his ears go red. “Swan?”

Emma nods, ignoring the lump of _everything_ in the back of her throat at her sound of her own name. “Hi.”  
  
“Hi? Did you just say hi? What are you doing here?”  
  
“I’m uh...how much do you remember of, like, the last seventy-two hours?”  
  
Killian makes a face, an expression that does something particular to Emma’s heart and soul and whatever, tilting his head and his eyes widen when he notices the coffin he just leapt out of. “Oh, shit. Is that…”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says. “So, uh. I don’t have a lot of time here.”  
  
“How much time is not a lot of time? God, are you some kind of angel? Is that what’s happening? Because if that’s what’s happening, then that’s a really twisted trick to show me you when I’m dead and—”  
  
“—No, no, I’m really here.” She ignores most of that sentence too. She’ll have the rest of her life to linger on what those words, maybe, mean. “But, um, we’re wasting time.”  
  
“To?”  
  
“Have you tell me who killed you.”  
  
Killian blinks – far too quickly to be anything except entirely distracting, and Emma wishes he wouldn’t because she’d really like to see his eyes and she’s almost pleased to realize her memories of his eyes have remained perfect for the last two decades. “Are you a cop?” 

“No, but, Killian, you’re really cutting into your time here. It’s like...twenty seconds now.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Killian!”  
  
His answering smile is blinding. That’s the only word Emma can come up with. It makes her breath catch and her shoulders sag, as if all the worries and fears and anxieties of the world have disappeared. At least for a moment. 

“It’s really good to see you, Swan,” he says, taking a step towards her and Emma backs up on instinct. That gives him, visible, pause. “I don’t know who killed me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I have no idea who killed me. It was an arrangement and—that’s not important, but I don’t know how it happened. I think I had a dream about some kind of blade but—”  
  
He cuts himself off when he twists the wrong way, gritting his teeth when his gaze falls on the blunt end of his left arm. “Holy shit,” Killian mumbles. “That’s...shit did I bleed out somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “That’s why I’m here.”  
  
“To find out why I died?” She nods. “And you’re not an angel?” She shakes her head. “Huh, well I’m sorry to disappoint, Swan, but I’ve got no idea. Does that send me directly to hell or something?”  
  
“I’m really not an angel.”  
  
Killian hums, rocking towards her and ignoring whatever Emma’s eyes do at that. “So, uh...what happens now? I was dead, wasn’t I?”  
  
“Yeah. Um...well, I have to touch you and you’ll be dead again.”  
  
“You have to touch me?”  
  
“Them’s the rules.” He chuckles, the smile on his face _her_ smile and Emma’s a greedy jerk. She wrings her hands together. That’s probably the fifth tell. “You know,” she mutters. “When I was a kid...I was...you were my first kiss.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You were my first kiss too,” Killian says. “And you’ve got to touch me so I die again?”  
  
“Please don’t say it like that.”  
  
There’s more laughter and they’re definitely in the final seconds and Emma tilts her head up as soon as Killian’s incredibly shiny dress shoes threaten to brush against her flats. “No better way to go out then to go out kissing, huh?”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Admit it, Swan, that was funny.”  
  
“It was not.”  
  
“You’re arguing with a dead man.” She rolls her eyes, but her stomach doesn’t get the memo about _jokes_ and _humor_ and Killian mumbles _hey_ under his breath. “Missed the mark, didn’t I? You don’t…” His ears are still tinged red, a hand reaching behind his back to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s not a requirement, Swan. The kissing, I mean. Just felt...symmetrical.”  
  
“You were always way better at math than me.”  
  
Killian grins. “So?”

And for half a breath, Emma is going to do it. She’s going to kiss him and it’ll be something, in some kind of way that may result in a complete and total mental breakdown, because Killian’s already leaning towards her and she really can’t cope with the cut of that suit, but that seems a little morbid too and Emma pulls her lips back behind her teeth. 

“Ah,” Killian says, a note of disappointment in his voice that does not make sense for a man who’s standing a few feet away from his own coffin. “That’s fine, Swan.”

He’s called her Swan more in the last forty-five seconds than he did in the last forty-five days they saw each other. 

Emma’s not totally convinced he isn’t doing it on purpose. 

“What if...you didn’t have to be dead?”  
  
Killian scoffs. “That’d be ideal, honestly. Is that an option?”

The objection sits heavy on Emma’s tongue, the certainty that the rules are the rules and there’s no way to break them, but he’s standing there and smiling at her and she takes a step back before she can consider anything except how much she wants Killian Jones to be alive. 

With her. 

Emma hears the timer on her phone go off. Her sixty seconds are up. And Killian Jones is still alive, smiling at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, internet! It is me, hoarder of fic, and refuser of posting anything in a timely fashion. It's been nearly two years (!!!) since a very nice person messaged me and was like...hey, would you ever want to write a Pushing Daises AU? And I was like yes! And I wrote it and did absolutely nothing with it. 
> 
> Until now! 
> 
> Coming at you, every Wednesday. There's a lot of magic, a lot of snark, Emma being really into Killian and more kissing than the source material would lead you to believe is possible. I am who I am, y'know. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	2. Chapter 2

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-two days and, approximately, thirteen hours old when she is forced to stave off a panic attack in the viewing room of Storybrooke’s lone funeral home. 

It feels as if all the oxygen has been forcibly yanked out of the room, spots appearing in front of her eyes and vision swimming. The tandem seems a little bit like overkill, but Emma knows she doesn’t really have a leg to stand on this particular situation because, in this particular situation, the man standing a few inches away from her is supposed to be dead. 

In that coffin a few more inches away from her. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles, running a ragged hand over her face and she can only imagine what her face looks like. Probably a little crazed. And blotchy. She always gets blotchy when she’s stressed out. 

She’s started coming up with a new pie recipe in her head. 

And Killian won’t stop staring at her. 

That’s fair. Really, all things considered, that’s more than fair because there hasn’t been much of an explanation yet, but there wasn’t really time and—  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma repeats, and that time Killian arches an eyebrow. He takes a cautious step towards her, like he’s approaching a dangerous animal they found in the woods and the metaphor checks out. 

She takes another step back – only to crash directly into a chair. It would really suck if she broke several different bones in addition to breaking the most basic laws of the universe. 

Emma exhales. 

That is a mistake. She can’t seem to stop doing that. 

“Swan,” he says slowly, as if he’s nervous she’s going to explode and it doesn’t really feel like that. It feels like every one of her bodily systems is shutting down one by one and Emma wishes her eyes could focus on something. 

She looks at Killian. 

That is another mistake. Like. The biggest mistake. He’s definitely better looking as an adult. 

“Emma,” Killian says, ducking his head to get into his eye line and, honestly, that just seems unfair. She can’t remember the last time he called her Emma. It must be, at least, twenty-two years and that number sounds ridiculous in her head, but it’s been so long and so much has happened and he’s supposed to be dead. 

She couldn’t let him be dead. 

“Emma. Swan, I’m not entirely sure what we’re supposed to do next, but you’re doing that thing with your jaw and it’s giving me pause.”

She blinks – and clenches her jaw. “I’m not doing anything with my jaw.”  
  
“Please, I may only be recently alive. Realive? Reborn? Oh God, no, that’s worse, isn’t it?”   
  
Emma’s laugh is strangled and awkward, but she’s ninety-six percent positive he’s doing it to make her feel better and that seems fairly par for the course. If only a little unfair because he was, in fact, dead three minute before. 

“I don’t think reborn makes much sense really,” she mumbles. “And realive is just...you’re not a zombie or anything.”  
  
“No human brains involved, then?”   
  
“No. I mean...no, no human brains.”   
  
“That pause also gave me pause.”   
  
“I really doubt you’re going to have a sudden desire to eat human anything, so long as you weren’t a cannibal to begin with.”   
  
His answering laugh is like coming up for air after several decades of being stuck under a particularly aggressive current. It’s exactly the way Emma remembers it, and if she’s being honest with herself she never really tried to forget it. It’s bright, like its own source of light and happiness and both of those things seem to shift across his face in slow motion until they reach his eyes and everything is blue and normal and directed straight at Emma. 

She takes a deep breath. 

“Were you a cannibal to begin with?” she asks. Mistake number sixty-seven, at least, makes Killian laugh again. 

He shakes his head. “Not as such, no. Although I’d probably kill somebody for a hamburger.”  
  
“That’s aggressive.”   
  
“I’d imagine dying would do that to you.”   
  
Emma groans, not entirely out of frustration, but mostly because he keeps throwing around _that_ word like it’s not the cause of the clench in her jaw. Her jaw is starting to ache. “No zombie tendencies,” she says, rehashing old and unnecessary points in a misplaced attempt to regain some control of the situation. It certainly doesn’t work when Killian runs his hand through his hair. “And I...well, we can probably get you food at some point.”   
  
“That so?”   
  
“I mean...I’d imagine you’d like to eat eventually.”   
  
“I feel like you’re asking me out on a date, Swan.”

The flush she feels in her cheeks at those particular words in that particular order do not make any sense considering the situation, but Emma has lost complete control of both the situation and her own bodily functions, so whatever. 

Licking her lips, she ignores the way Killian’s eyes dart towards her mouth. It is genuinely unfair how long his hair is. She keeps losing her train of thought. 

“I’m mostly just trying to figure out how to get you out of here,” she says. “I don’t…”  
  
Emma glances around, not sure what she’s looking for exactly and it is a genuine miracle of the universe that Ruby has not knocked on this door yet. 

The miracle ends rather abruptly. 

“Emma,” Ruby hisses, voice barely audible over what sounds like several different limbs colliding with the door. 

Killian freezes, eyes wide when his head snaps towards Emma. She’s going to do permanent damage to her jaw. 

She does something ridiculous with her hands – an attempt to keep him quiet without actually telling him to keep quiet – and her heart stutters when she notices him pull his lips back behind his teeth to stop from laughing. Strictly speaking, she probably shouldn’t be counting that as some kind of personal victory, but it’s been that kind of day and Emma is more than willing to blame either the cut of his suit or that one piece of hair behind his left ear or, the most likely culprit, how he keeps trying to rock into her space like he can’t actually stop himself from moving towards her. 

Killian winks at her. 

It’s absurd. 

Her pulse does not care. 

It kind of feels like she’s suffocating. It’s not entirely unpleasant. Except for what she assumes is stress-related acid reflux in the back of her throat. Because that feeling is certainly not guilt or regret or the several dozen things she should have told Killian Jones before he died. 

Ruby is definitely throwing her entire body at the door. “Emma,” she says. “Either you’re doing something entirely unacceptable in that room or you’ve been in there for way too long!”  
  
Emma closes her eyes at that, her whole body drooping forward with the force of her sigh and she can’t even bring herself to look at Killian. He also kind of sounds like he’s suffocating. On his own laughter. 

The universe is toying with Emma. There’s no other explanation. 

“Also,” Ruby continues, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of response to her monologue. “The director is starting to get suspicious and I think he’s got places to go with that coffin. Like graveyard things and they’ve got to move and we’ve got to get out of here before someone realizes what we’re—”

Emma curses, drawing a wide-eyed look out of Killian because he remembers her as a nine-year-old kid with mud on her knees and a questionable obsession with winning bike races. She ignores the flash of disappointment she feels at that, moving across the room as quickly as she can and barely opening the door before she slides back into the hallway. 

Ruby gapes at her. 

“What the hell have you been doing in there?” she demands, stepping on the toe of Emma’s boot like that’s some kind of reprimand. 

“Not any of the things you so were discreetly suggesting.”  
  
“Ok, I didn’t really think you were desecrating the body—”   
  
“—Jeez, Rubes. That’s...that’s a human being.”   
  
“I’m not questioning that. What I am questioning is what took so long and whether or not I can go home and pay off my credit card statements for several new pairs of Manolo Blahniks.”   
  
“That’s not practical at all for field work, you know that right?”   
  
“Not all of us are tied to our job,” Ruby says pointedly, and there is not enough oxygen in the entire world for Emma to sigh as loudly as she wants to. “But speaking of jobs...any pertinent information on this one?”   
  
Emma does her best not to use any of her tells. She does, really. She doesn’t move her feet, doesn’t reach up to grab the ends of a ponytail that seems to have just given up at some point. And she certainly doesn't allow her eye to twitch. 

None of it seems to matter.

Because Ruby blinks and lifts her eyebrows, judgments and questions all but radiating off her and it’s a losing battle Emma probably shouldn’t have ever started. Emma is, for all intents and purposes, the world’s worst liar. 

It’s not usually a problem. She doesn’t talk to enough people for it to become a problem. That, however, was before a not-dead Killian Jones was on the other side of the door behind her and her partner could read her almost as well as that same not-dead Killian Jones and he shouldn’t be able to read her that well. 

Still. Or always. Or whatever. 

Emma lets out a ragged breath, a pitiful attempt at a smile on her face. “Nothing,” she lies, and Ruby’s eyebrows practically disappear into her hair. “He uh...didn’t know anything.”  
  
“He didn’t know anything?”   
  
“Nope.”   
  
“Nope?”   
  
“Are we just going to repeat each other for the rest of time or, like, until one of us dies?”   
  
“Well, we’re in the right place for it, aren’t we?” Ruby asks, the sarcasm dripping off the words and landing on Emma’s feet until it soaks through her boots and leaves her socks damp in the most uncomfortable way. At least metaphorically. 

Emma scowls. “Hysterical. I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Rubes. The guy didn’t know anything about anything.”  
  
“The guy?”   
  
“You are repeating me again.”   
  
“Why are you calling him that? Two hours ago you were offended that I referred to him as a body and now—”   
  
“—Well, that’s just rude, that’s why,” Emma interrupts, ignoring the look on Ruby’s face. “I mean...he’s a person and we should, you know, respect the dead.”   
  
Ruby tilts her head, smile turning incredulous. “Yuh huh.”

Emma groans, letting her head fall back, which is definitely mistake, like, eighty-four at this point because it’s a very solid door and the pain feels as if it’s lingering at the base of her skull and growing, moving down her neck and into her shoulders until every inch of her feels heavy and impossible and decidedly wrong. 

She’s done something wrong. 

She is wrong. 

“Ok,” Ruby nods, a sudden and jarring acceptance that Emma doesn’t entirely trust. “You say the guy doesn’t know anything about how he died, then he doesn’t know anything about how he died. Because I believe you. Partner.”

“That is heavy handed,” Emma accuses, but all she gets is a shrug. 

“No, no, my dear Emma. That is a fact. I believe you and I trust you. And I know that this is...a touchy subject for you. I won’t pry because—”  
  
“—You won’t pry?”   
  
“No,” Ruby says, a note of finality in her voice. “I won’t. At least not now. Because you're doing that ridiculous thing with your jaw and toying with your fingers and if your eye twitches any more, it’s actually going to fall on the floor.”   
  
“That rhymed too.”   
  
“That was also unintentional. My point still stands.”

Emma sighs, a breath of frustration and confusion and that same guilt she hasn’t been able to shake for the better part of the last two decades. She can’t hear anything through the door behind her. 

She hopes he sat in a chair or something. 

It’d be weird if he sat in the coffin. 

“And the point is?” Ruby doesn’t quite haul off and punch her, but the fist that collides with Emma’s shoulder is certainly more than a tap. “Oh my God,” Emma grumbles. “What the hell was that?”  
  
“That was the visual representation of my annoyance with you today. This was good money and now we’ve got to do actual investigating to figure it out.”   
  
“Isn’t that your job?”   
  
“Not recently,” Ruby groans. “I hate working in the field. My shoes are totally inappropriate for it.”

“This is what I was saying.”  
  
Ruby makes a noise in the back of her throat – almost a growl and it sounds a little predatory, but Emma can’t back up any farther. She’s already a little worried she inadvertently concussed herself before. “Ok, tell me something, and I expect God's honest truth because we are somewhere God is watching.”   
  
“This is not a church.”   
  
“Shut up, the truth, Em, you got it?” Emma nods slowly, nerves churning in the pit of her stomach and she can dimly make out the funeral director hovering at the other end of the hall. They’ve probably disrupted his entire schedule. “Was Killian Jones as dreamy as an adult as you thought he was when you were nine?”   
  
In the grand scheme of questions Ruby could have demanded answers to, that is probably the last thing Emma expects. It shouldn’t be, because this is Ruby and the day appears to be going a very specific kind of way, but the question still catches her off guard and, if asked, she will blame both of those things for the next few words that fall out of her mouth. 

“Yeah, he was,” Emma mumbles, and Ruby makes a noise that’s somewhere between generic triumph and a pretty spot on impression of some kind of barnyard animal. “Oh my—Ruby, Ruby, shut up, _shut up_.”

Emma pushes on Ruby’s shoulder when she sags forward, laughter shaking its way through her body. It doesn’t really do much. “That funeral director is staring at us,” Emma whispers. “And you are not helping the situation at all.”  
  
“And what situation would that be? Exactly?”   
  
Those questions sound far more charged than the one about Killian’s overall state of dreaminess, especially when they’re combined with that knowing look and particular quirk of lips and the floor creaks when the funeral director moves towards them. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says, not sounding sorry at all and Emma suppresses a shudder at the tone of his voice. He gives her the creeps. “But I will have to ask you two to leave. The deceased has to be moved.”  
  
“Moved?” Emma echoes. 

“Yes, ma’am. That’s...well, he’s dead, ma’am.”  
  
“I’m aware.”   
  
Ruby throws her a warning glare, but Emma’s stubborn and, well...stubborn. She pushes away from the door, crossing her arms and waiting for an explanation to a question she hasn’t actually asked. The funeral director is a total creep. 

Something is wrong. 

She knows it. 

She just can’t figure out what. 

“The cemetery, ma’am,” he says. “We need to move the body to the cemetery so it can be, well...buried. As the deceased’s family requested.”  
  
“Do they actually have to request that?” Ruby asks, an entirely out of place question while Emma is fighting off another panic attack and she hadn’t really considered that. She hears something shift in the room behind her. 

The funeral director’s eyes dart up, staring over Emma’s shoulder as if he can see a ghost there. “Did you hear that?”  
  
“Nope,” Emma says, another incredibly bad lie. “Nothing. There’s...nothing in there, but, you know, dead bodies. One. There’s one dead body in there.”   
  
Ruby mumbles a very creative string of curses under her breath. 

“Right,” the funeral director says, drawing the word out in complete and obvious disbelief. “Well, the deceased's family is here and they’re looking to get this show on the road, so to speak.”  
  
“I really doubt they said that,” Emma mutters. Ruby’s next curse does not sound like it’s in English. 

“True. But I still need you two out of here. Now.”  
  
He says it with something Emma assumes he believes is authority, turning on his heels before she can begin to formulate an inappropriately snarky response. Ruby kicks her. 

“Ow,” Emma gasps. “What the hell was that for?”  
  
“You’re asking me that? What the hell were you on about just now? This is...we’ve got a connect here and it’s easier to get information before we get to the morgue—”

“—You love going to the morgue, don’t even try to lie to me like that. You get to flirt and use that face thing and—”  
  
“—I do not have a face thing.”   
  
“You do too,” Emma argues. “You have several face things and one face thing in particular for Victor because it always works and he ignores how awful it is that we show up whenever a new dead body does.”   
  
“He gets paid!”   
  
“Yell that a little louder, please.”   
  
Ruby growls again, all annoyance and frustration and balled up fists lifted in the air. “God, I hate when you’re right. Why are you getting all high and mighty about Killian Jones?”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“Emma.”   
  
“I’m not! I’m...listen, I lived here for some very formative years of my life and Killian Jones was…”   
  
“Very formative?” Ruby prompts. 

Emma shrugs. “More or less. Listen, he didn’t know anything about what happened. He...I mean he’s missing his hand and that’s got to be some kind of clue right?”  
  
“Are we looking for clues now?”   
  
“Ruby, you are a private investigator. With a growing shoe collection that is going to put you in debtors prison.”   
  
“Please, they don’t have debtors prison anymore. The IRS would just come for me.”   
  
“And you want to explain all those cash-only payments that are suspiciously off the book?”

Ruby’s eyes narrow until they’re barely more than slivers on her face and Emma grins like she’s not in the middle of a complete and utter disaster. “God I hate when you’re right,” she says again. “Alright. We’ll see if we can figure something out.”

It takes her a few steps to realize Emma isn’t following her towards the front door, nearly tripping over her own feet when she spins back around. “Why are you standing there still?”  
  
“I, uh...I think I may go to the service,” Emma says evasively. She’s genuinely the worst liar in every known universe. “You know, just to pay my respects.”   
  
“Didn’t you do that when you undeaded him?”   
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense. He was dead and then he wasn’t dead and—”   
  
“Now he’s dead again?”   
  
“Who do you think I am, Ruby?”  
  
Ruby shrugs, lower lip jutted out and Emma can practically hear the gears moving in her head. “I’m starting to wonder if I actually know. You’re really sure he didn’t know who killed him?”   
  
“I am not trying to keep the reward for myself.”   
  
“I didn’t say that.”   
  
“You didn’t have to.”

Ruby clicks her tongue, digging her heels into the carpet. There’s a hint of blush on her cheeks. Emma appreciates that. “Yeah, that was kind of a dick move, huh?” she mutters. “I know you wouldn't do that. Seriously.”  
  
“Good. Listen, you don’t...there’s a bus station a couple blocks away from here.”   
  
“You’re not even going to drive me home?”   
  
Emma shrugs. “It’s probably a long service.”   
  
“It is incredible how bad you are at lying.” Ruby stares at her, like she’s looking for the truth lingering between Emma’s eyebrows or the tilt of her mouth, but she sighs when she, presumably, doesn’t find anything. “Fine,” she says. “I will take the bus home. If I die I fully expect you to bring me back to life, understood?”

Emma doesn’t actually stumble backwards, but it’s a pretty close thing. She bites her lower lip hard enough that she draws blood, the tang of it flooding her mouth and doing a pretty piss poor job of keeping her grounded. 

It feels as if her head has separated itself from the rest of her body and is just floating above her, drifting into the atmosphere where there is a distinct lack of oxygen. 

Digging her nails into her palms is another misplaced attempt at control through pain that she wishes her subconscious would stop relying on. It just ends with her hissing in a breath of unfulfilling air and Ruby’s eyebrows shifting again and—

“That’s not a funny joke,” Emma grumbles. 

“It wasn’t a joke. It was an instruction. I don’t care about the rules. That’s that. As they say.”  
  
“They?”   
  
“The eponymous they who decree what happens in the universe. Does this bus come often?”

“I haven’t lived here in a very long time.”  
  
“You’re no help at all,” Ruby sighs, but she does reach out and give Emma’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. It’s at least an attempt at a comforting squeeze. It would probably feel better if Emma were getting the necessary oxygen to her brain to retain its higher functions. “Ok, I’m leaving now. You’ll probably continue being...a giant weirdo. I’ll see you downstairs tomorrow morning with anything I can find.”

Emma nods, not entirely trusting herself to talk as she fumbles for the door handle behind her. Ruby casts one more curious glance around the hallway, probably looking for more clues or signs that Emma has messed with the tremulous balance of the universe, but there’s nothing and Killian doesn’t sound like he’s knocked anything else over. 

“Ok, cool,” Ruby says, not sounding ok or cool. 

Emma counts to ten in her head – and then counts to twenty for good measure, the metal of the doorknob cool in her grip. Breathing is still a very particular challenge, but Killian isn’t dead and Emma refuses to acknowledge the idea of cemeteries and burials and she’s flying by the seat of several metaphorical pants. 

She opens the door. 

He’s leaning back against the goddamn coffin. Smiling. At her. 

“So,” Killian says conversationally, arching an eyebrow. “That seemed to go well. I’d imagine there are some things going on here that you’re not telling me.”  
  
“There wasn’t really time.”   
  
He hums, mouth twisted into something that looks a little patronizing and kind of flirty. Emma doesn’t know how to deal with either one of those things. “Because of those seconds you mentioned before.”   
  
“Yeah, exactly that. Listen, Killian we don’t really have—”  
  
“Time,” he cuts in. “Yeah, I’ve got that. Did that guy out there say my uncles were here?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“I’d imagine that’s the family he was talking about. Since that’s the only family I’ve got.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Swan, you can’t just keep squawking the same question at me, we’ll only end up going in circles.”   
  
“Squawking?” Emma repeats, and she definitely does exactly that. Her voice even cracks. It’s absurd. That may just be Killian’s smile. 

Her smile. Definitely her smile. 

“Just like that,” he says, moving away from the coffin. It wobbles precariously on its perch and Emma thanks several gods she doesn’t entirely believe in that it hasn’t fallen over at some point. “So I’ll ask again. Are my uncles here?”  
  
“I don’t know. But, um...the guy was talking about family and, well, they want to bury you.”   
  
“That generally happens when one dies.”   
  
“You’re taking this all very easily,” Emma says, not sure why she’s pointing it out when she’s certain any other reaction would only prove more problematic than the problems they’re already dealing with. 

“Well, you look a little frazzled. It seemed rude to add my own emotions to the mix.”

She scoffs – disbelieving and entirely believing because the Killian Jones she always knew would do exactly that, in any situation, even twenty years later with a coffin involved. “I’m so sorry,” Emma whispers, the apology working its way out of her without her explicit permission.

Killian blinks, mouth opening with a soft pop. “That’s what you said before. Right before you left. You apologized. I didn’t understand it then either.”  
  
“You remember that?”   
  
“I remember quite a bit, Swan.”   
  
“Yeah, me too, actually.” She feels like she’s admitting to something much bigger – possibly even bigger than the apology and it might be why she couldn't will her lips to go any farther a few minutes before. He couldn’t be dead. It didn’t make sense. 

None of this makes sense. 

“So,” Killian continues, another step into Emma’s space. There are far too many chairs in this room. “You keep doing that too. Moving. Is the dead thing freaking you out?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, that’s it.”

“Then…”

“I need you to stop trying to move so close to me.”  
  
“Ah, so it’s me, then? That’s...admittedly disappointing.”   
  
The butterflies in the pit of Emma’s stomach appear suddenly and rather violently, threatening to fly up her throat and out of her mouth and she’s suddenly filled with so much energy that it’s impossible not to tap her fingers against the side of her thigh. Killian presses his tongue into the corner of his mouth. “Oh my God, stop that,” Emma mutters absent-mindedly, and they both blink when they realize what she’s said. “It’s...that’s distracting.”   
  
“Am I distracting you, Swan?”   
  
“From trying to figure out how we’re going to get you out of here? Yes.”   
  
“Ah, yeah, I’d imagine just walking out the door would probably cause that creepy sounding funeral director to have several different medical issues, huh?”   
  
“You thought he was creepy?”   
  
Killian makes a face. “He sounded creepy didn’t he? I mean, admittedly that may just be because he kept calling me the deceased and it’s kind of messing with my psyche, but…”   
  
“Is your psyche being messed with?” Emma asks, and that time she’s the one who steps forward, instinct and long-dormant magnets and whatever the butterflies are still doing. She’s going to have fingernail-shaped crevices in her palm for the rest of her life.

“Seems inevitable.”  
  
“Ah, that sucks.”   
  
“It’s not your fault, Swan.”

Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat, tugging her lips behind her teeth. And Killian grins at her. It seems unfair. For him and her and some kind of collective them. 

She considers that for a moment – a collective unit with collective pronouns and some kind of team of non-death related emotions and for that half a moment Emma allows herself to believe it’s even a possibility, she feels herself smiling as well, a certainty and something that almost resembles calm and she wants it so much she’s surprised to find she’s not actually shaking with it. She couldn’t let him be dead. 

“We need to get you out of here,” Emma announces. 

“Any ideas how to do that?”  
  
She shakes her head, tugging the elastic out of her hair and all but yanking the strands over her shoulder and she’s fairly certain she doesn’t imagine the way Killian’s eyes widen slightly at that. “You alright?” she asks, and he nods brusquely. “I mean you know…”   
  
“I know what you meant, Swan. I’ll let you know if I’m drifting towards any perilous cliffs of emotional breakdown.” He chuckles at his own joke, flashing a grin her direction when he starts pacing the room as if a hidden door or secret compartment will suddenly appear. “The creepy funeral director said they were going to the cemetery, right?”   
  
“I’d imagine that’s where they usually put the bodies, yes.”   
  
“Was that a joke?”   
  
“It might be a defense mechanism.”   
  
“Yeah, I understand that,” Killian nods. “Eventually you’re going to have to tell me about those rules that were being discussed before.”   
  
Emma doesn’t exactly freeze. She definitely tenses, though, every one of her muscles objecting at the abrupt position she’s forced them into. “What?” she breathes, and Killian laughs again. 

“C’mon, now, Swan, it’s Storybrooke. Everything here is several hundred years old and probably a historic artifact. Shoddy craftsmanship in this building. Also, unless you’ve learned how to tap dance in the last twenty years, you’re doing a very good job of avoiding being in several feet of me. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”  
  
“Smart guy.”   
  
“Perceptive,” he corrects. “So, what do you say, eventually you’ll tell me about the rules of this little arrangement we seem to find ourselves in?”   
  
“Is that what we’re going to refer to it as?”   
  
“Eh, might as well. What did you call it? A defense mechanism? Seems to be the same kind of thing almost.”   
  
“Or drifting dangerously close to that breakdown precipice.”   
  
Killian shakes his head, moving quicker than Emma expects and he’s only a few inches away from her. She swears she can feel the heat rolling off him. Like the world is trying to prove a point. “No precipice, love,” he promises, but Emma barely hears him over the rushing in her ears and the thundering sound of her own pulse and he’s never called her that before. 

He doesn’t seem to realize he’s done it. 

“I’d really rather not be buried alive though,” Killian continues. “Now that I am alive again.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “Stop that.” 

That grin should be illegal. Or deadly. God. 

He salutes at her. That’s even worse than the smile. 

“Where did you learn how to do that?”  
  
“You know Nemo used to be in the Navy?”   
  
“I did not.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, very proper, very structured and then he met Shakespeare when he was on leave one day and everything changed.”   
  
“That so?”   
  
“Absolutely,” Killian says, moving towards the only window in the room and the glass creaks when he slides it open. “Nemo was in port, didn’t feel like drinking his guts out, or so he likes to say when he tells the story, and he decided to do something refined. By taking in a vaudeville show, of course.”   
  
“Of course. How high up are we?”   
  
“Not high. We should probably close that coffin, don’t you think?”   
  
“It was closed when I got in here,” Emma says, doing her best to close it as quietly as possible and it still sounds far too loud. Killian is half hanging out the window. 

The whole thing is inching dangerously close to farce. 

“Then I can’t imagine they’ll double check on it when we both leave,” Killian says. “Anyway, where was I?”  
  
“Vaudeville. True love conquering all.”   
  
“I don't think I got that far, Swan. You’re ruining the flow of the story.”   
  
She hums, some more misplaced sarcasm and possible flirting and Killian groans when he slings his legs over the windowsill. “Anyway,” he continues. “Nemo went to the show, took one look at Shakespeare and realized that maybe it was worth putting down some roots for a little while, that the appeal of the sea wasn’t wonderful and glorious—”  
  
“—He used those exact words?”   
  
“He did. Do you want to jump out the window after me, Swan?”   
  
“I don’t see any other choice. Although I’m not sure how we’ll get it back down.”   
  
Killian waves a dismissive hand through the air. “Maybe they forgot they opened it in the first place. It gets stuffy in rooms like this anyway.”   
  
“That’s leaving quite a lot to chance, don’t you think?”   
  
“I do not think. C’mon on now, where’s my slightly adventurous, ready to take on the world Swan?”

Emma straightens slightly – the words moving into the spaces between her ribs and wrapping around her heart. They grip tightly, almost on the wrong side of painful, but it’s also kind of warm and a bit familiar and Killian keeps looking at her like he’s simply been waiting for her to come back. To him. And them. 

Collectively. 

“She grew up,” Emma says, and Killian clicks his tongue in reproach. 

“Ah, you don’t want to do that, love. It’s not nearly as fun.”  
  
“What happened to Nemo?”   
  
“True love conquered all, naturally. He and Shakespeare started talking and there were some drinks involved, probably a few questionably funny nautical jokes—Nemo loves those, you know. And then they decided that was it for them. They were it. Nemo left the force and started following Shakespeare around and they were entertaining and then, well...you know the rest.”

Emma nods, because she does know the rest and it would probably be weird if she apologized again. She opens her mouth anyway, not sure what she’ll say, but there are footsteps coming down the hall and voices joining the footsteps and she hisses _go_ before she can consider saying anything else. 

Killian winks again. And jumps out the goddamn window. 

Emma nearly dislocates several different joints when she follows, but she does and, somehow, manages to yank the window, mostly, down in the process – a move she’s certain she’d never be able to duplicate. 

“That was impressive, Swan,” Killian says, brushing a few stray pieces of grass off his pants. “Should we dramatically escape now?”  
  
Emma mumbles something that may be _oh my God_ under her breath, but she doesn’t actually disagree and he resolutely refuses to sit in the backseat of her car as they drive out of Storybrooke. 

* * *

“So, let me get this straight, you touch people, they’re not dead and then you touch them again and they’re—“

“—Dead forever, yeah, that’s the gist of it.”

Killian tilts his head, and Emma resists the very real urge to run into her kitchen, hide in her freezer and never come out. She assumes that would be slightly immature. 

It’s hours and several slices of pie later, Killian’s slightly stunned laugh that _you opened a pie restaurant, Swan_ echoing in between her ears still, and, as promised, she’s started to explain some of the rules. 

Some of them. 

Not all of them. 

Not one of them. Specifically. 

She’s circled right back around to immature. 

But touching her childhood sweetheart twenty minutes before he was slated to be buried and then keeping him alive, despite the so-called rules of the universe, seems a little immature. All things considered. So, maybe, she’s just on some kind of roll at this point. 

She genuinely cannot cope with that one piece of hair falling across his face. 

Or whatever it appears he’s doing with his eyebrows. 

He did not know how to do that when he was nine. 

“So I’d imagine kissing you really is entirely out of the question.”

Emma nearly falls over. “Excuse me?”

“Relax, Swan,” Killian mutters, leaning dangerously far over the counter and he grins when she clicks her tongue in reproach. “It was a joke.”

“You were dead six hours ago, how could you possibly be in the mood for jokes?”

He shrugs, an air of nonchalance that feels decidedly forced. “How did you figure out you could do this?”

The fear that slinks down Emma’s spine isn’t exactly cold, which, really, is kind of strange, but until that moment she hadn’t realized an emotion could have a temperature. It’s not cold, but it’s kind of…prickly, as if it’s desperate to remind her of what’s going on and what she’d done and how she absolutely cannot possibly tell Killian about any of it. 

She pushes a plate of pie towards him. Triple berry. Which, if memory serves, is his favorite. The grin turns into something closer to a smirk. 

“Eat,” she says. 

“You keep trying to feed me, you know. This is not the cheeseburger I requested earlier. Isn’t there something about last meals?”

“This is not your last meal. Also I do not have any cheeseburgers here. This is a pie restaurant.”

“Does that do good business?”  
  
“Are you worried about my bottom line?”   
  
He shakes his head, “Not in that sense.”

“Killian!”

His eyes widen at the sound of his own name, and it’s not the first time she’s said it, but it kind of feels that way and they were definitely flirting and Emma is far too preoccupied with how close their fingers are to be worried about anything happening to his face. She jerks her hand back to her side, breath catching in her throat and this was a mistake. 

Ruby is going to kill her. 

The hiding in the kitchen plan is starting to get even more appealing. 

“You’re still not very good at avoiding the subject,” Killian murmurs, glancing up at her from underneath his eyelashes. “Alright, we’ll try a different approach. How’d you know I was dead?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you not hear the question or…you haven’t been back in Storybrooke for awhile.”

“Twenty years, in fact.”  
  
He hums, leaning forward again to grab a fork. Emma cannot fathom how he knows where she keeps her forks. That sentence sounds ridiculous even in her head. 

“Long time,” Killian muses. “And you what? Wanted to pay your respects? Did you actually see Nemo or Shakespeare?”  
  
“I was doing a very good job of avoiding them.”   
  
“Were you now?”   
  
“You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are,” Emma mutters. Killian needs to stop doing whatever he’s doing with his mouth. 

“Why didn’t you ever come back?”  
  
“What?” 

“You keep repeating yourself, Swan. It’s a very straightforward question.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”   
  
Killian makes a vaguely interested noise – which is, actually, kind of nice because Emma knows he’s more than interested and definitely holding back and he’s still far too good at reading her. It’s disconcerting. “Alright, I’ll make you a deal, Swan,” he says. “You don’t have to answer the questions you think are more than complicated and neither do I. But we don’t actually lie to each other. I...I’m not sure I can cope with you lying to me, love.”   
  
His voice stumbles a bit on the last few words, a hint of emotion and another endearment Emma is positive he doesn’t realize he keeps drifting to. He glances at her again, the look almost brimming with every single emotion she hadn’t understood when she was nine, but still kind of feels when she’s twenty-nine. 

Emma huffs, a sigh and a pointed eye roll as Killian sticks a fork into his slice of pie. “I, uh…know these things. About death. And dead people.”

“You know these things? Are you also some kind of soothsayer?”

“Ok, c’mon, that’s not even—“

“—Funny?” Killian challenges, and Emma cannot glare hard enough when he does something else with his mouth. “I think it’s absolutely hysterical given the situation. Also, this pie is delicious.”

Her emotions have a slightly different temperature-based reaction at that – flushed and warm and something that feels distinctly like more butterflies in the pit of her stomach. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she mumbles, and Killian’s eyes do that _thing_ , that thing she’d remembered even after years and more than a decade apart and she couldn’t let him be dead. He couldn’t be dead. 

Those words just don’t make sense in that order. 

“Avoiding,” Killian says, pausing between every syllable. “How’d you know I was dead?”

“Stop saying it like that!”

Emma doesn’t mean to snap. She doesn’t. She’s actually desperate to maintain some semblance of control because everything feels like it’s spiraling very quickly and Ruby is genuinely going to murder her. 

And then make it look like an accident. 

And somehow collect the reward. 

There’s no one to offer up a reward for figuring out how Emma died. 

God, she’s even depressing in metaphor. 

“Swan,” Killian presses when she doesn’t say anything else. She pulls her gaze back up, despite every inclination not to, and it is probably another mistake, but that’s kind of been her MO all day and he’s staring at her exactly like she’d always remembered. 

He can’t actually touch her – they’re both almost painfully aware of it, but he’d always been creative and Emma lets out a shaky laugh when he stabs the side of her hand with the tongs of his fork. 

“The truth, love, let’s have it.”

She swallows before she answers, because it feels as if all those emotions, with their varying temperatures, have settled in the back of her throat and he’d never called her _love_ when they were ten, but he had called her Swan and that was the first thing he said when he saw her. 

Emma hadn’t been _Swan_ in a very long time. She likes it far more than she’s willing to admit. 

And she’s just about to tell him, really, she’s got every intention, but the TV sitting in the corner of the kitchen is on and it must be close to ten o’clock because the news has started playing and right there, leading the broadcast, is _Killian Jones, found dead, authorities willing to pay for more information_. Emma feels his stare even with her eyes squeezed closed. Which they are. Suddenly. And tightly. 

The last thing she expects him to do is laugh, and he doesn’t quite do that, it’s more a disbelieving scoff, but it’s also not yelling and Emma figures that’s a win.

“So, what?” Killian asks, poking Emma again when she refuses to open her eyes. “You touch murder victims and—“

“—Ask them who killed them? Yes.”

“And this is a business of yours?”

Emma shakes her head. “This is the business,” she says, waving her hand around the empty restaurant. “The other thing is a…hobby.”

“You must bring in a considerable income for your hobby.”

“I have a partner.”

Killian does laugh at that and Emma tells him the rest – how Ruby saw her and it was an accident, but it works and the money is good and justice is being served or something. His eyebrows twist several times throughout the explanation, lips pressed tightly together at one point so he doesn’t smile too wide. 

And, really, Emma would like to believe she still knows Killian well enough to guess what he’s going to say after she’s detailed every last thing, but it’s been a very long time and he’s got that one piece of hair that seems determined to torment her now and the reward for information about his death was incredibly large. Questionably large. Almost too large, really. 

“Is that the voice I heard before?” Killian asks, and Emma nods. She’s started mixing something at some point. She doesn’t actually remember when she decided to do that, but it seems to have just happened and Killian appears almost amused by it. 

“Yeah. She wasn’t entirely pleased you didn’t know who killed you. It means she’ll have to do actual PI work and that messes with her fashion choices.”  
  
“I’m not sure I understand the order of the words in that sentence.”   
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”   
  
“And you normally...touch these people again? After you figure out who killed them.”   
  
Emma nods, but it’s cautious and she feels like she’s stepped onto incredibly thin ice. She mixes harder. “Yeah, always.”   
  
“Was I the straw that broke the camel’s back?”  
  
“No, no, I just...I couldn’t.”   
  
“I should probably be thanking you for that, huh?”   
  
“Not necessary.”   
  
“It seems incredibly shitty that I can’t even hold your hand,” Killian muses, almost like he’s saying it to himself and Emma hears her jaw crack before she actually feels it drop. He shrugs. “I’m just saying. That was...that was kind of our thing, wasn’t it? I know it was a long time ago, but—”   
  
“—No,” Emma says, far too loud to be anything except enthusiastic and just a hint desperate. “That was definitely our thing. You know they said they found your body at the bottom of the hill.”   
  
“Our hill?”   
  
Emma startles at another joint pronoun – and it doesn’t really even make sense because they didn’t own that hill, but her mind doesn’t care. It latches on to ours and linked hands and how much she wants from Killian Jones. 

Still. Or always. Whatever.

“So,” he says, grabbing the rest of the pie tray as soon as her mouth is closed and not even bothering to cut another slice. “You think your partner would go for 30-30-40? I feel like I should get more, since I did die for it and everything.”

Emma blinks. “What?”

“Let’s find out who killed me, Swan.”

She’s not entirely surprised by it. Honestly. Emma kind of, almost, sort of expected him to say it, but she blinks again anyway, nerves chipping away at every corner of her brain and her life and the seemingly unstable structure of it all. 

Emma has spent the last few years of adulthood doing her best to compartmentalize everything. She’s got work and the side work and Ruby’s never even been in her apartment. There are no photos of Ingrid there. There’s nothing even resembling sentiment. 

Except for the photo booth print out she’s got in a drawer next to her bed, a souvenir of the one time she and Killian went to the fair and he won her a stuffed animal that she definitely lost somewhere between houses ten and eleven. 

Maybe she is a little sentimental. 

“Thoughts?” Killian prompts when Emma stays, presumably, frustratingly silent. “Feelings? Immediate reactions other than whatever it is you and your jaw are doing. That can’t be good for your molars, Swan.”  
  
“My molars specifically?”   
  
“I’d imagine it’s detrimental to most of your teeth, but your molars probably play the biggest role. There’s lots of clenching going on in that jaw of yours.”   
  
“You are not a dentist.”   
  
Killian drags the fork through the last few pie crumbs, resting both his elbows on the counter. “That’s an accurate observation. I am, however, someone well acquainted with orthodontia and a particularly torturous summer that included a copious amount of headgear.”   
  
“That was a lot of adjectives.”   
  
“Felt appropriate. And to be fair, it did make my teeth...better.”   
  
Emma laughs. She wishes she wouldn’t. No, that’s wrong. She shouldn’t wish to laugh less. It’s just weird to laugh this much. 

That’s depressing. 

“Were your teeth in need of being better?” she asks, and they’re both doing a fairly admirable job of avoiding the situation. 

“If you ask either one of my uncles, they will tell you that it was a form of controlling me—”

“—Controlling you?”  
  
“And my incredibly dreamy face.”

“I didn’t say that.”  
  
“Eh. I believe you agreed rather quickly with the disembodied voice on the other side of the door regarding my overall dreaminess. Is that why you kept me alive?”   
  
Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. And Killian scowls almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, understanding washing over his face. He grits his teeth. His admittedly very straight teeth. “Punch me in the face when I say shit like that,” he mumbles, almost falling off the stool he’s perched on when he realizes what he’s said. 

Again. 

“That’s not why I kept you alive,” Emma whispers, but it feels like a promise and sounds like a guarantee and she’s got no structure at all any more. She’s got...a mess, really, is what she’s got. “Although it is admittedly a perk.”

She’s a little proud of herself for very clearly catching him off guard. 

His eyes widen and his breath catches audibly and the sound of the fork clattering back onto the counter in between them is gratifyingly loud. 

It’s a good look, honestly. 

“Yeah?” Killian asks, a little breathlessly and, surprisingly, cautious, and Emma nods slowly as if she hadn’t been in love with him when he was nine. And he hadn’t grown up into whatever was sitting on the other side of her restaurant counter. 

Staring at her – still. 

“Yeah,” Emma guarantees. “We’re not doing this, though.”  
  
“Doing what? Exactly?”

“Not that.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything.”   
  
“Yeah, tell that to your face.”   
  
“You seem very intent on discussing my face, Swan.”   
  
She hisses in a breath, frustrated at how quickly these metaphorical tables appear to have turned. Killian’s eyebrows do something she’d been previously convinced was biologically impossible. “I’d like to punch you in the face.”   
  
“But you can’t do that,” Killian points out. “And forgive me for rehashing old points, love, but you were the one investigating my murder were you not?”   
  
“We don’t know that’s what it was.”   
  
Killian eyes her, and for half a second it looks just like Liam and just like those memories Emma has been so desperate to forget, but she’s still got those pictures and there wasn’t really much choice in keeping him alive. 

“Swan,” he says. It sounds like Liam too, all adult and twenty years in audible form and Emma grips the counter until her knuckles crack as soon as he holds up his left arm. “We said we weren’t going to lie, love.”  
  
“Are you ok?”   
  
The words fall out of her before she’s really considered them, the question not big enough and far too big all at the same time – because, upon closer examination, the blunt end of his arm isn’t really all that blunt, like someone took care of him or tried to fix it and she can’t imagine what must be going through his mind. 

Emma is waiting for the fallout. Always. 

It can’t just be ok. She’s far too wrong for that. 

“That’s a rather loaded question, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma agrees. “But we’ve kind of been bantering and it’s been—”   
  
“—Very easy to do that, actually. That’s been kind of nice. It was...I missed you quite a bit, Swan.”   
  
Emma blinks, and presses her lips together, afraid of what she’ll say if she doesn’t and even more terrified of what she might not say – this promise of being honest with each other appears to have blown up in her face far quicker than she expected it to. 

“Did you?” she asks, not much more than a squeak and after all the relative ease of conversation, they’ve suddenly stumbled and broken a few bones. Metaphorically. Killian’s lost his hand. Literally. 

Killian jerks his head, a quick and nervous nod that would have stunned his ten-year-old self. “You never came home.”  
  
“It wasn’t really my home.”   
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
Emma’s jaw aches. “You didn’t really answer my question, you know.”   
  
“About being ok?” She must nod, because her hair brushes over her ear, but Emma feels as if all of her muscles have frozen in place and they can’t possibly eat more pie. Killian sighs, head falling forward when he tugs on the hair at the nape of his neck. “Eh,” he groans. “I am...doing my best not to drift towards that precipice and wondering if my uncles are ok and what the hell I’ve gotten into and, uh...every single thing that’s happened to you between getting in that car and showing up at my funeral.”   
  
“I promise it’s not that interesting.”   
  
“Ah, I don’t know about that. You know I always thought you could do something incredible, but now you’ve gone and proven that you’re real, literal magic, Swan. It’s messing with my head a little bit.”   
  
“I’ve been doing this for a very long time and it’s constantly messing with my head.”   
  
His laugh lacks a distinct amount of humor, but his smile is genuine when he glances back up at her and Emma knows they can’t stay in the restaurant. The thought of where they’ll go makes those butterflies rise up again. 

“You look exhausted,” Killian says, waving a finger through the air. He ignores Emma’s soft cry of protest when he gets too close. “I don’t have an actual death wish, Swan. You have to relax.”  
  
“That’s not really my thing.”   
  
“A work in progress.”   
  
“Aren’t you tired?” she challenges. 

“Feel as if I could sleep like the dead.”  
  
“You aren’t dead.”   
  
She says it with almost _too_ much conviction, like she’s trying to convince herself as well as Killian and anyone else who realizes that he is, in fact, not dead. It’s a determination Emma isn’t sure she’s felt in years, but it feels kind of good – warm and confident, like coming home to a home she’d forgotten she’d ever had. She assumes there are fuzzy blankets involved too. 

“I know I’m not,” Killian whispers. “Thank you for that.”  
  
More conviction. More emotions. More—”You want to come upstairs?”   
  
“You live upstairs?”   
  
“I’m nothing if not efficient.”   
  
Killian chuckles, finger still in his hair as he gets off the stool. “Lead the way, Swan.”   
  
She hasn’t really had time to organize her space – and it feels a little bit like opening herself up, but Emma hasn’t actually found she’s nervous around Killian for any of the reasons she’s supposed to be nervous and she kind of wants him to be there. She absolutely, positively missed him too. 

He glances around the living room, taking in sparse decorations and the curtains that came with the apartment when Emma moved in. There are a few pillows on the couch – they came with the couch too – and plates in the sink, coffee still in the pot because she’d been running late to meet Ruby that morning. 

Killian’s lips twitch when he notices the small collection of scarves hanging on a rack by her front door, the same kind of rack Ingrid had in their house because Ingrid wore scarves eight months out of the year and—

“I like it,” he says with a smile and Emma’s skin feels as if it bursts into flame. 

“You can take the bed if you want. I’m...the couch is fine until we figure out what we’re going to do later.”  
  
“Solve a murder?”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“I can sleep on the couch, Swan. This is your apartment.”   
  
“Yeah, but—”   
  
Killian shakes his head. “If you make some kind of dead joke, I’ll start investigating my own murder without you and it won’t be nearly as fun.”   
  
“Seems like you’re punishing yourself. And we’re not investigating your murder. That is...tempting fate.”   
  
“Yeah, well, fate seems to have reached out and punched me squarely in the jaw first, don’t you think?” Emma huffs, but she’s familiar with this particular brand of stubborn and it really does feel as if she could fall asleep standing up. “Plus, uh...what if we both just stayed out here? For...old time’s sake?”   
  
“Old time’s sake?”   
  
“And how much I don’t really want to be by myself.”   
  
He says it so softly, Emma wonders if she didn’t just imagine it, but he doesn’t blink when he gazes at her and they used to do it all the time when they were little – alternating living rooms and coming up with increasingly impressive blanket forts with designs Liam drew by hand. Killian always fell asleep before her. 

“Yeah, ok,” Emma breathes. “I’ll get us some more blankets.”  
  
It doesn’t take long for them to find themselves back in the living room – teeth brushed and blankets moved and Killian wearing clothing that’s far too big for Emma and far too small for him and it probably would have been funny if she didn’t feel as if her lungs were being twisted. 

They lay several feet apart from each other on the floor, pillows tucked under heads and arms tucked under pillows and it’s familiar and not and Emma wonders if time doesn’t actually stop for a moment. 

She hopes so. 

She wants this to linger. Forever. 

“Good night, Swan,” Killian says. He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t try to hold her hand like he would have all those years ago, but it sounds the same and it feels the same and, that time, Emma falls asleep first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of those words may seem familiar since they came from the snippet that originally inspired this story, but from here on out we are all brand-new with brand-new information and magic. Like, magic. And banter. A surplus of banter. 
> 
> Of the flirting-type variety. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down


	3. Chapter 3

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-three days and, approximately, eight and half hours old when she wakes up to an empty apartment. 

This, normally, would not be cause for distress, but Emma is less than twenty-four hours removed from making sure Killian Jones wasn’t buried in the same cemetery she once kissed him in and they probably should have discussed the rules more. 

Like the never leave her apartment rules. 

Because everyone thought he was dead rules. 

Emma exhales, a breath of air she didn’t realize she was holding onto until she suddenly realizes how much she desperately needs it and it cannot be healthy for her vision to keep fading in and out like that. She assumes it’s a symptom of something. Possibly insanity. 

She feels a little insane. 

And questionably well rested. 

Because for someone who broke most of the most fundamental rules of the universe the day before, Emma didn’t wake up once all night. 

She refuses to acknowledge that that is probably a sign too. 

“Ok, get a grip, Swan,” she mumbles, mostly to herself because she is, in fact, the only person in that apartment. “He can’t have gone that far.”

Pushing out of the pile of blankets tangled between her legs, she glances around her admittedly small living room and the smile on her face feels equal parts unnatural, incredulous and a little overwhelmed. And kind of charmed. 

The blankets on the other side of the room are all folded – sharp corners and folds that are, very likely, Naval grade and the clothes he’d slept in are next to them, looking as if they’ve just been dropped off by the world’s most effective dry cleaners. 

This, however, does not give Emma any sense of where the hell Killian has actually gone and she can’t keep talking to herself. That’s a line she refuses to cross and a rabbit hole she refuses to go down and she jogs into the kitchen before she realizes that’s where she’s decided to go next. 

The plates are still in the sink, not much looking out of place, but Emma has been spending most of her free time with Ruby for years now and she’s got _an eye for these things_ or something that would definitely make Ruby laugh and there’s a peace of paper folded on top of the coffee maker. 

His handwriting is different than it was when he was a kid, not quite as lopsided as it was when he got points taken off a spelling test for illegibility that required Liam to meet with the teacher. It’s blunter now, like he’s trying to work out all his emotions about the entire state of the world in a few letters on a piece of paper that Emma can’t even begin to imagine he found easily. 

_You didn’t have any coffee left. You’re an awful hostess_. 

Her hand doesn’t shake when she reads it, a moral victory she’ll probably hold onto for the rest of the day, and her smile still feels incredibly out of place. 

Because Killian is not in her apartment. 

Or dead. 

That’s probably the most important part of the whole thing. 

Emma genuinely has no idea what sound she makes in response to that. It’s not a laugh, she’s teetering far too close to those metaphorical precipices to actually find much humor in the situation, but it’s not actually a scoff or a groan either. It’s a weird mixture of all three, a sound that actually manages to hurt her throat on the way out before lingering in the air and pressing down on every side of her skull and he’s right; she doesn’t have any coffee. 

She was going to go to the store last night. 

She got a little sidetracked. 

God, now she wants a cheeseburger too. 

And Emma is disappointed she didn’t realize exactly where a very-much alive Killian Jones went as soon as she woke up. Because, once, when she was seven and he was eight – only a few days after his birthday and he’d been bragging about _being older_ and _wiser_ and several other things that made Emma kick at his ankles – he’d decided he wanted to know what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street. 

And the only way to figure out what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street was to lift it up, climb. down and start exploring. Immediately. He’d ignored most of Emma’s protests, smiling and nodding like she was making any progress in the argument, and eventually she’d run out of fight and gotten a flashlight out of the hallway closet. 

They didn’t find much of anything, just managed to ruin both of their shoes and Ingrid resolutely refused to give them pie for three straight days because they had to throw away their clothes when she couldn’t get the smell out and—

“He went back downstairs,” Emma sighs, shaking her head in something close to disbelief. 

She doesn’t time herself, but she assumes that she gets ready in record time – only a few minutes and a few droplets of water thrown at her face, not even bothering to brush her hair before tugging it up while jogging down the stairs to her own restaurant. Emma put the note in the back pocket of her jeans. 

Killian doesn’t immediately look up when Emma walks in, skidding across the linoleum tile of the kitchen floor, but she can see his lips quirk slightly and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get brighter. 

That is a scientific impossibility, Emma is sure. She’s also not entirely convinced they’re dealing with normal science. 

She doesn’t know what category magic fingers fall under. 

He’s half leaning on the counter, arms crossed lightly over the button-up he was wearing the day before and feet crossed at the ankles, a mug of what is, presumably, coffee in his right hand. There’s no tie, which is probably for the best because Emma isn’t sure she’d be able to handle that. 

And he’s not alone. 

“Hey, Em,” Graham says brightly, and Emma is glad she’s not holding anything. She would drop it. Killian’s tongue moves into the corner of his mouth. 

Emma needs to study science more because it feels as if the blood actually falls out of her face, vision doing that _thing_ again and she’d just like some kind of confirmation if that’s even possible. 

Killian doesn’t move, although his eyes do narrow, a hint of a concern shifting into the space between him and Emma. There is not much space between him and Emma. 

“So, uh...I met your friend,” Graham continues, eyes doing an admirable job of looking like they’re bouncing around a pinball machine. “Didn’t really know you had friends.”

Killian snorts into his coffee, and Emma is torn between scandalized and...mostly scandalized. 

“I have friends,” Emma sputters. Graham does not look convinced. “Are you not my friend?”  
  
“I am your employee.”   
  
“Ok, well...yes, that’s technically true, but—”   
  
“—Do you want to share friendship bracelets, Em? Is that what you’re telling me?”   
  
“There’s no need to be a jerk about this.”   
  
“What about those little heart pendants? Where we each have half? Or is that too retro for us? We’re some kind of proper millennial relationship, right?”   
  
Emma scowls – an expression that is starting to become her default setting, and Killian is suspiciously silent. Until he isn’t. 

“We had matching temporary tattoos one summer,” he says softly, and Graham nearly falls over. He doesn’t actually, which makes it eight-hundred thousand times worse, and Emma briefly considers drinking the coffee straight out of the pot. 

She assumes burning her tongue beyond recognition will, somehow, ground her. 

“That so?” Graham asks, voice going gruff and disbelieving. “What summer was this? Recently?”  
  
“Do you honestly think I am the kind of person who has had a temporary tattoo in recent history?” Emma mutters. Graham shrugs. 

“I have a sudden and very strong suspicion I don’t know much about you at all, boss. It’s not for lack of trying, but…”  
  
He trails off in a way that makes Emma’s stomach twist uncomfortably, an allusion to almosts and possibilities that were never really either because Emma doesn’t like those words and she’s much better on her own. 

It’s safer that way. Less connection, means less possibility for getting hurt. Or something. 

She can’t really remember the reason for anything anymore, particularly when she can feel Killian’s eyes boring a hole in the side of her head and her pulse has only recently recovered from finding her apartment as empty as it normally is. 

“If memory serves, Swan was eight,” Killian says, still speaking mostly into his coffee cup. “She’d gotten a rather disappointing mark in third-grade science.”  
  
Graham’s shoulders shake when he chuckles. “What kind of science is third grade science?”   
  
“The most basic science possible.”   
  
“That’s a complete and total lie,” Emma argues. “That was...there was that frog thing involved and I—”   
  
“—Resolutely refused to do the assignment,” Killian finishes. “Did you also get detention?”   
  
Emma nods, not as stunned as she probably should be that he remembers this so well. Although, he’d also gotten detention with her because _if Swan isn’t going to dissect the frog, then I’m not either_. “Ingrid was furious,” Emma says. “She said we were challenging authority and couldn’t I have just done what I was supposed to do for once in my life.”  
  
“I always thought that was a little heavy-handed. What did the frog ever do to you that it deserved to get cut up like that?”   
  
“Died, apparently.”   
  
Killian hums, the conversation drifting dangerously close to topics they absolutely cannot discuss in front of Graham. “That was awfully rude of him to do that.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure the frog would agree with that, though.”  
  
They stare at each other for a moment – metaphors and metaphorical dances of the conversational variety and Graham coughs pointedly when they don’t do anything else. “Anyway,” Killian says, a forced brightness to the word that makes Emma’s jaw clench. “Swan refused to cut apart the frog, Ingrid was very upset about it, as was the teacher, God, what was her name?”   
  
“Ms. Feinberg,” Emma answers. Honestly, Graham does not appear to be breathing at this point. 

“That’s right. That’s right. She wore that ridiculous fur coat in the winter and—”  
  
“—We thought she could control the animals with her voice. Some kind of ridiculous magical thing that made a lot of sense when I was eight.”   
  
“Does it not make sense now?”   
  
Emma shrugs, not sure how she manages to stay upright when it feels as if the floor shakes under her feet. “How’d you get coffee?”   
  
“I’m absolutely incredible in unfamiliar situations,” Killian grins. He leans forward as he says it, another test of fate that Emma can’t voice and he knows she can’t voice and she’s going to have to give Graham an entire week off for subjecting him to whatever this might be. It feels like flirting. Again. “Also your coffee maker does not require me to be a rocket scientist, love.”   
  
Graham sounds like he’s choking. 

“You ok?” Emma asks as he continues to sputter on oxygen. 

“Yup, yup, yup,” Graham nods brusquely. “I’m fine. Totally fine. So, uh...you two knew each other when you were younger then? What was Emma like when she was a kid? Aside from the weird science thing.”

“It’s not weird to refuse to dissect a frog,” Emma hisses. “I was a kid. I liked animals.”  
  
She wishes she could come up with another phrase then _kill him_ because that feels a little insensitive and Emma clearly doesn’t want to kill Killian, but he keeps laughing and pouring more coffee. He twists around, opening a cabinet he shouldn’t know is there and offers Emma a mug. 

“I don’t know how you take your coffee, Swan,” he says quietly.

Emma reaches out slowly, careful not to touch his fingers and it’s as weird as possible – gripping the mug from the top while Graham’s actual head snaps back and forth. “Cream and three and a half sugars,” she says. “If it’s not espresso.”  
  
“You don’t have an espresso machine?”   
  
“It’s not that kind of restaurant. Espresso is way too new wave.”   
  
“New wave,” Killian echoes, but there’s nothing even resembling teasing in any of the letters. He says them as if he’s chasing them and they’re both still holding the goddamn mug. 

“Yeah. I’m not...great at change, really. Like. At all, you know.”  
  
He lets go of the mug. 

She doesn’t drop it. So, points to her or whatever. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Graham says. He waves both his hand through the air, as if that will clear it or make any of this make sense and maybe Emma should just give him two weeks off. “I am...very confused. I thought you knew each other. You…” He glances at Killian, blinking quickly. “I don’t know your name.”  
  
“That’s because I never told you,” Killian says. 

“And?”  
  
“And...what?”   
  
“Ok, you’re really not going to tell me your name? Are you...Em, what the hell is going on right now?”

Emma shakes her head, not sure where to begin or how to explain and Killian is pouring her coffee. As if that’s a normal thing that is allowed to happen and the urge to run is almost overpowering. That’s always been her thing – even when she was eight years old and refused to follow the rules of a science class that was almost too dependent on rules and a classroom that smelled like formaldehyde no matter what they happened to be studying that week. 

Emma does not do conflict. She does disappearing acts, her own personal brand of magic that’s served her and her slightly patched-together heart very well for the last twenty years, but that same heart is really only patched together because it was forced to run away from the man in front of her who, once upon a time, wouldn’t let her get in trouble by herself. 

So she doesn’t run. 

She swallows instead, biting back words and explanations and the very real desire to just scream as loud as she’s capable of. 

“You want to double check on the napkin dispensers?” Emma asks, not actually looking at Graham and that does admittedly feel like kind of a dick move. 

“I’m sorry, what? Was that the answer to the question? Seriously who the fu—”  
  
“The napkin dispensers,” she cuts in sharply. Emma turns her whole body when she speaks, hopeful that her face betrays the regret she feels festering in the tips of her fingers. “Just...you know make sure that they’re full.”   
  
“Are we expecting some kind of mad pie rush today?”   
  
“God, I hope not. Also, why are you here early?”   
  
Graham’s expression shifts – tremulous and clearly concerned about Emma’s immediate reaction to whatever he’s about to say. He glances Killian’s direction, but is only met with slightly interested eyebrows and a recently refilled coffee mug. 

“You heard her,” Killian mutters. It’s not quite a threat, although Emma can’t stop the shiver that drifts down her spine and lingers in between her hips, a flash of cold that makes her wonder if they’ve suddenly time traveled to the middle of December. 

He hops onto the edge of the counter when Graham’s mouth drops slightly, eyebrows still as high as ever and hackles almost visibly raised. 

Emma has no idea what hackles even are. 

“Hey,” she says, waving a dismissive hand as close as she can get to Killian without ensuring disaster. “What…” Emma trails off when she realizes she can’t formulate that question either, another head shake that makes her neck ache. “Alright,” she continues. “I want a straight answer Humbert. What are you doing here so early?”

Graham shuffles on his feet again. “Ruby called me. Late last night. Which, honestly I thought you were dead, but she promised you weren’t, just that you might be and—”  
  
“—I’m sorry, I might be?”   
  
“Emma, if you keep interrupting me, I’m never going to finish the story and I’ve got a jam-packed schedule of refilling napkin containers.”   
  
“Are they that empty?”   
  
“Emma!”   
  
"Fine, fine,” she grumbles, shooting a glare Killian’s direction when he dares to laugh at what may be her very real mental breakdown. 

“I didn’t say a word, Swan,” he grins. 

Graham coughs again, but it also sounds a bit like a groan and three weeks of vacation seems almost exorbitant. “Ruby called me,” he repeats. “Was certain there was something going on with you and that you were acting shady after you guys left here yesterday morning. She said she’d been doing some research and some names had come up and—”  
  
“—Wait, what kind of names?” Emma interrupts. Graham throws a strawberry out of the closest bowl at it, the fruit bouncing off her left hand and landing at her feet – rotten, again. 

Killian slides off the counter. 

“Do you mind giving us a couple of minutes?” he asks, stepping in front of Emma like he’ll be able to block her from the threat of the one waiter she employees. She has to dig her nails into her palms to resist touching him again, those ridiculous and inconvenient magnets proving particularly problematic once more. 

She doesn’t hear whatever Graham says in response, is far too busy trying to figure out what the buzzing in the back of her head is. It sounds a bit like flies, or maybe a little more like bees, a hum and a sound that isn’t quite distracting, but feels a little powerful. 

The noise grows the longer she stays in one place, as if it’s getting stronger or more intense, knocking at the edges of Emma’s consciousness. It feels a bit like a memory she forgot, but is desperate to remember and that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s déjà vu, a familiarity and a reminder and it almost feels warm, like it’s wrapping its way around her shoulders and holding her tight and Emma doesn’t think it’s a threat. 

She’s got no idea what the hell it is, but she doesn’t think it’s trying to hurt her. 

It might be trying to help her. 

Or remind her. 

And she nearly jumps out of her skin when Killian tugs on the side of her shirt. 

“Holy shit,” Emma growls, stumbling backwards. “What the hell were you thinking?”  
  
“You’re going to have to be more specific, Swan.”   
  
“What time did you get down here?”   
  
He shrugs, an air of nonchalance that’s far more frustrating with the noise that’s starting to ebb in between her ears. “Not long before you got here.”   
  
“Was Graham down here?”   
  
“No, he showed up in the middle of my quest for coffee. He’s fairly desperately in love with you, you know.”   
  
Emma blinks. “Ah, shut up,” she says before she can come up with a better retort and, that time, Killian’s answering laugh is almost warranted. 

“Did you just tell me to shut up?”  
  
“Yes. You can’t...you can’t do, like, any of the things you have done in the last hour.”   
  
“I wasn’t aware of the rules.”   
  
“Well there are rules,” Emma snaps, and she knows it’s not his fault. He was dead yesterday. And now he’s not and that’s got to be messing with his head, no matter what he tells her. Even if he keeps staring at her that very particular way, as if she’s some kind of magical being descended from on high to...do something. Emma isn’t sure what yet. 

Killian moves back towards the counter, grabbing the strawberries along the way. The whole thing is ridiculous. “And they are?”  
  
“You can’t come down here. Not...not without telling me or when Graham is down here and—”   
  
“—And just who exactly is Graham, Swan? He seemed quite interested in figuring out who I am.”   
  
“Because you aren’t supposed to be in the kitchen!”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s because he’s hopelessly, inextricably head over heels in love with you and he made several different assumptions as soon as he saw me. Do you not often have men in your kitchen, love?”  
  
“That’s not even clever.”   
  
“And that’s a very pointed attempt at not answering the question.” 

Emma huffs, crossing her arms, but that only serves to twist up her shirt and Killian’s eyes dart towards the suddenly obvious patch of skin above her right hip bone. “No,” she mutters. “That’s not...this has never happened before.”  
  
Killian eats another strawberry. 

“And Graham, he doesn’t...he’s not a partner in your side endeavors?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “He knows that sometimes I take elongated breaks that usually require Ruby to arrive, but other than that, no. He’s got no idea. No one does.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“Why not?” Emma balks, voice rising of its own accord. Killian’s face doesn’t shift, but she can see his tongue press on the inside of his cheek and that might be one of his tells. “No one can know that,” she presses. “It’s...that’s way more power than anyone should have. Life and death and—death.”  
  
“You said that twice,” Killian points out. His own voice drops, like it’s trying to balance out Emma’s near-shriek and she probably shouldn’t be taking comfort from it, but she can still dimly make out the buzzing in the back of her brain. 

“I left Storybrooke and I got shipped around the country. I bounced around from group home to foster homes and houses and no one was ever even remotely interested in actually adopting me. One family tried to use me as a tax break, but that was as close as I got and it was never...it was never Ingrid. It was never you.”

She has to take a deep breath to stop herself from crying and Emma isn’t sure how the words keep coming, but Killian Jones is in her kitchen and everything seems to fall out of her without much concern about her set of rules. 

“There was never anyone,” Emma continues. “So I learned to keep to myself and figure things out on my own and it’s better that way, don’t you think? No chance of making a mistake or doing something wrong and I’ve managed to rationalize the whole thing with Ruby.”  
  
“Justice being served, huh?” Killian asks knowingly. 

“Yeah, exactly that.”  
  
“I can’t just stay in your apartment forever, love.”   
  
The endearment switch catches her off guard, a trend that Emma should really start expecting at this point. Nothing seems like it’s on even ground anymore. 

“People know you’re dead,” Emma argues. “There were news reports and, well, you heard it. Your name was there and there were graphics and—”

“—All of that seems a little tacky, don’t you think?”  
  
“I’m not here to debate the merits of journalism with you.”   
  
“Then what are you going to do, Swan? Because I’m not going to stay cooped up forever. I can’t. I did that for a very long time and I won’t—”

“I told you,” Graham announces, turning towards the wide-open door of the restaurant where a fuming Ruby appears to be doing her best impression of carved marble. “Doesn’t he look just like that dead guy on the news?”

Emma drops the coffee mug in her hand. 

“He looks exactly like that dead guy on the news,” Ruby seethes. She stands in the doorway for a few more moments, likely considering where to dump Emma’s body when she inevitably kills her, but then the clack of her heels moving towards the kitchen sounds impossibly loud and Emma regrets not getting dental insurance. 

She’s got a feeling she’ll need it sooner rather than later. 

“That’s super weird,” Graham continues, stuffing a handful of napkins into the container at table six. “Didn’t he die under suspicious circumstances?”  
  
“They don’t know,” Emma bites out. She chances a glance at Killian who, it seems, has also frozen, fingers wrapped around another strawberry. 

Ruby’s laugh is distinctly lacking any humor. “Or so the reports go.”  
  
“I heard some rumors there was some shady stuff involved,” Graham says. Emma’s head is going to fly off her neck. That would be for the best – then she could ignore the whole situation entirely. 

“What kind of shady stuff?”  
  
Graham shrugs, dropping the container back onto the table and every noise sounds magnified. Emma has to glance down to make sure there aren’t sparks shooting out of her fingers. There are not. That’s almost disappointing. 

“Well they didn’t find anyone else there, did they?” Graham asks. “At the scene, I mean? Usually there’d at least be a suspect or something.”  
  
“Maybe you should be the PI,” Ruby drawls. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hysterical, Lucas. I’m just saying. There should be DNA or something right? And they said he lost his hand. But...no hand at the crime scene.”  
  
“What?” Killian snaps, looking only slightly affronted when Ruby glares at him. “Where did it go?”

“Do you think I’m aware of dead peoples missing limbs?” Graham asks. 

Emma’s never had an actual heart attack, so she can’t be entirely certain of what the symptoms are or what it actually feels like, but she assumes it sort of feels like this. Her arms feel too heavy for her body, hands like weights dragging her into the kitchen floor. Bobbing on her feet, she tries to dispel the extra energy she’s suddenly flush with and that can’t possibly be medicinal.

No one notices at first – Ruby far too busy asking Graham where he’s getting his sources and Graham snarking back and it’s not a surprise when Emma feels Killian’s gaze move back towards her and her tiny vertical jump. 

“Swan,” he starts, leaning forward. “What…”  
  
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ruby shouts. Her hair hits the side of her face when she shakes her head, eyes bordering on dangerous and possibly tinted as red as the highlights in her hair. “No, no, you did not call her that. Is that...Humbert, you need to get out of here.”   
  
Graham drops another napkin container. “What? I work here, Lucas.”   
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
“You are not my boss.”   
  
“Get out of here, Humbert!”   
  
He lifts his hands in frustration, clearly waiting for Emma to object, but her jaw is stuck mid-clench and there is something _wrong_ here and a heart attack probably shouldn’t last this long. “Fine” Graham growls. “Fine. You guys want to play secret and not act like this is the first time Emma has acknowledged there are other human beings on this planet, that’s fine with me.”

He’s gone in a huff of napkins and knocked over chairs, the bell on the door ringing loudly as soon as he slams it behind him. 

And for half a moment Emma is almost hopeful they won’t say anything else. They’ll just stand there until the end of time when the meteors come and dinosaurs return or however the world is going to end and she’ll be able to avoid this particular brand of conflict. 

“Emma.”  
  
No such luck. Killian is still staring at her. 

“So, guess we’ve got some things to talk about, huh?” Ruby asks, more forced calm that’s almost worse than screaming and shouting and throwing fruit. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”  
  
“The truth would just...blow my mind.”   
  
Emma sighs, closing her eyes and trying to come up with something that’s even remotely possible and everything sounds worse than the last lie. “I couldn’t,” she whispers, staring at her shoes. Her shoes are less judgmental than the other two people in the kitchen. 

“He is kind of dreamy. I think it’s the hair. Or the earring.”  
  
Emma lifts her head – Ruby grinning knowingly at her because Ruby knows that _other_ rule and they’ll have to deal with that eventually. Preferably when Killian isn’t within hearing distance. 

“I think my uncles thought it was a joke,” Killian murmurs, tugging lightly on the jewelry and the wisps of hair that curl just behind his ear. “I looked this morning. Just to make sure I wasn’t taking on any zombie-like characteristics.”  
  
“You’re not a zombie,” Emma groans. He grins at her. 

“No harm in double checking. But I noticed the earring and that’s definitely Nemo’s, so...in the grand scheme I suppose it’s nice.”  
  
“Who’s Nemo?” Ruby asks, grabbing a pie off the counter and two forks. She hands one to Killian. And they’re all taking this surprisingly well. 

Emma may be the only one who isn’t. 

“The aforementioned uncle,” Killian says. “This one is good too, Swan.”  
  
“All Emma’s pies are good.”   
  
“Are you two bonding right now?” Emma demands. “Because that’s...Ruby are you not furious?”   
  
Ruby nods, tugging the fork out of her mouth slowly. “Oh I’m super pissed at you, but you’re currently exercising three of the five tells, so I figure you’re doing a really great job of beating yourself up already. Also I’ve got some news and, like, eighty-thousand questions.”   
  
“Only eighty-thousand?” Killian asks. 

“At least. Don’t try and play cute with me though, Jones. I’ve got some very strong suspicions about you.”  
  
“Such as?”   
  
“You weren’t as naive about the situation as you told your girlfriend.”

Killian’s grip on the fork noticeably tightens and Emma should really clean up the puddle of coffee at her foot. It’s starting to seep into her sneaker. Maybe she should buy new sneakers. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and Emma’s breath catches because she’s incredibly familiar with that particular tone. It’s the same exact tone it was when he was seven and trying to convince Liam he’d only had one slice of pie at Ingrid’s. 

And the tips of his ears go red. 

Ruby shakes her head. “Incorrect. And as much as I hate to admit Humbert is ever right about anything, he does bring up a good point about your hand. What do you remember about that?”  
  
“Not much,” Killian lies. 

“Nope, try again.”  
  
His eyes dart towards Emma’s, tongue flashing between his lips and it’s as if they’re standing on a tightrope above several dozen crocodiles or alligators, whichever are more dangerous, and there’s probably rain involved too. Just to make everything as slippery as possible. 

“You said you’d already done the cooped up forever thing,” Emma whispers. “And you wouldn’t do it again. What did that mean?”  
  
“You ran and I stayed put, Swan.”   
  
“English, Jones.”   
  
The twist of his answering smile is enough to make Emma’s heart stutter against her rib cage. He tugs the pie plate out of Ruby’s hands, taking another exaggerated bite – eyes never leaving Emma. “Seriously, you should be winning awards for this,” he mutters. “And I didn’t actually lie to you before. I have no idea who actually killed me.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But,” he repeats. “I’m not exactly the kid you remember.”   
  
“Who are you then?”   
  
Killian inhales, only to exhale even sharper and—”It’d really be much easier if I could hold your hand.” Ruby gags. “That’s not a line,” he promises. “That’s...it was always easier that way.”   
  
“Start at the beginning,” Ruby commands. He salutes again. 

“My brother died when I was ten years old and it changed my entire life,” Killian explains. “For awhile I thought it ruined my entire life because it meant Emma was gone and, you know no one ever moved into your house, Swan?”  
  
She shakes her head, not sure what the right response to that is, but some twisted part of her is almost glad. “They didn’t,” Killian continues. “It was just there, forever, taunting me of what was gone and what wasn’t ever actually coming back. And, well, Shakespeare and Nemo were used to being on the road, but the acting troupe they’d be in for the decade before they got saddled with me...it was on its last legs. There’s no money in it and they sort of stumbled into guardianship without much prep or guidance and they didn’t...they sat in that house and they’d both seen so much already. 

“You know Nemo’s ship was attacked once, that was part of the reason he wanted to avoid the bars on that port leave when he met Shakespeare and they’ve both dealt with so much shit from the world. They weren’t really….they weren’t really interested in the world anymore.”  
  
“But I bet you were, weren’t you?” Ruby asks, tugging on the plate again. 

“Not at first. Well, no that’s a lie. I was a shit kid as soon as Swan was gone, always getting in trouble and blowing off class and I think I tried to run away no less than sixteen times before I actually turned sixteen.”  
  
“How would you get out of town?” Emma asks, hating how soft her question sounded. 

Killian smirks “I never made it very far. You know Storybrooke, love, eyes everywhere and people gossiping even more. I think Cora Mills caught me trying to sneak out of my house even more than my uncles did.”  
  
“Oh she always gave me the creeps.”   
  
“You’re going to want to remember that in a second.”   
  
“Can you please put a pause on the flirting for, like, point two seconds so we can get on with the story?” Ruby groans. “Time, as they say, is a-slipping.”   
  
“You’re not very patient are you?”   
  
“It’s a family trait,” Emma mumbles. “You should meet her grandmother.”   
  
“Hey,” Ruby cries. “My grandmother taught me every PI trick I know. She’s the reason we’re going to find Jones’ killer and collect both rewards.”

Emma tenses. “Both rewards?”  
  
“Yeah, now you’re interested, aren’t you? Keep going Jones. This is almost interesting backstory.”   
  
“Almost interesting,” Killian chuckles, and they really should have each gotten their own pie. “Alright, alright. So Cora Mills—the mayor of Storybrooke,” he adds at Ruby’s questioning expression. “She’s been mayor since the dawn of time really, and she’s known I’ve been trying to get out Storybrooke for years, but I never did.”   
  
“Why not?” Emma asks, Killian’s hum of confusion feeling as if it lands between each one of her ribs. “I mean...couldn’t you?”  
  
“Eh, I’m sure I could have if I put my mind to it. But at some point around high school graduation, which was never entirely a guarantee for me, I realized that Nemo and Shakespeare were done with the world. They were tired of fighting it and tired of trying to find their place in it and—”  
  
“—You couldn't leave,” Ruby finishes, a note of sympathy in her voice that stuns Emma more than just about anything else that’s happened. 

Killian hums again. The disappointment and regret in the sound is bitter on Emma’s tongue, and maybe she should be taking some adult-ed science classes because she’s clearly got no idea how any of this works, but she’s never seen that look on his face before. 

As if the whole world has passed him by and left him in the metaphorical dust. 

“They’d given up their whole lives for me,” he mumbles. “And we were good. For a very long time. I...well, I figured out how to make money and I had books.”  
  
“Books?” Emma repeats. “You had books?”   
  
“I like to read.”   
  
“Are you a nerd now?”   
  
“I wouldn't go that far. It’s a...hobby, possibly some kind of obsession depending on who you ask. Don't ask my uncles.”

“I promise.”

He smiles at her again – slow and genuine until that replaces the _whatever_ in between Emma’s ribs and she feels as if she breathes normally for the first time since she woke up. Ruby sticks her entire tongue out. 

There are berry stains on it. 

“Is this going to be a thing now?” she shouts. “The flirting? Are we going to flirt our way through several different crime scenes?”  
  
Emma tilts her head. “Are there more than one crime scene?”   
  
“There might be if Jones doesn’t get better at telling us his goddamn life story. Also, the less sarcastic answer is maybe because I’ve got news, but seriously the life story. If you were good with the shut-ins, why did you leave?”   
  
Killian doesn’t answer immediately, and the tension in between his shoulder blades is almost too obvious. Emma isn’t sure she hears him at first. And then she’s not sure she wants to. 

“Nemo got sick,” he says. “Suddenly and...badly? Is that the right word? It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t great and so I was trying to figure out a way to get some money and an opportunity presented itself.”  
  
“How?”   
  
“Remember creepy Cora Mills?”   
  
Emma hates that her jaw drops, but she can’t stop it and she knows this is not a good story. She didn’t expect it to be a good story and it is, somehow, even worse. “What could she possibly offer you?”   
  
“Money,” Killian shrugs. “And the chance to get out of Storybrooke, which given the situation paints me in a particularly asshole-light, but that’s always been kind of my MO too and—”   
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
“You haven’t known me for a very long time, Swan.”   
  
“I don’t believe that.”   
  
Melting certainly isn’t the right word for whatever happens to Killian’s expression. Emma doesn’t care. It’s the first word her mind comes up with and latches onto, in some misplaced effort to maintain control of a decidedly out of control situation, and she wishes she could hold his hand. 

Too.   
  
Or still. 

Or always. 

Honestly, whatever. 

“Thanks,” Killian mutters. “I promise it’s warranted in this situation. I was getting desperate. I never went to college and I couldn't figure out what to do or who to ask.”  
  
“No girlfriend to help, then?” Ruby asks archly, ignoring whatever noise Emma makes at that particular question. “What? First of all, that’s a genuine question. Because if there is a girlfriend, then we should probably prepare ourselves for her arrival in defense of Jones’ previously discussed very dreamy face and, second of all, if there is a girlfriend, she probably should have helped him rob a bank or something.”   
  
“Are we advocating bank robbing now?” Emma fumes, her anger having nothing to do with the sanctity of the American banking system. 

“No girlfriend,” Killian says. Emma wrings her hands together. So, naturally, Ruby notices. “Anyway, Cora found me one day and told me she had an opportunity if I was interested.”  
  
“And were you?”

“I didn’t see any other option, really. It made sense when she explained it. I had to get on the ship and—”  
  
“—Wait, wait, there was a ship involved?” Ruby asks. 

“Yeah, a cruise. To uh...shit, where was it to?”  
  
“We weren’t on the ship.”   
  
“That wasn’t the important part that’s why,” Killian mutters. “It was Tahiti or something. But I was told that I wasn’t supposed to do any of the onshore stuff they do. You know, zip lining and...swimming with sharks or whatever.”   
  
“The thought of that always freaked me out,” Ruby muses. 

“Yeah, me too actually. They say it’s safe, but—”  
  
“Can we focus, please?” Emma exclaims, met with two wide-eyed expressions for that especially emotional outburst. “Sorry, sorry, just...what were you supposed to be doing on this boat? Oh my God, are you some kind of drug mule?”   
  
Killian makes a face, ridiculous enough that Emma has to dig her heels into the ground to make sure she doesn’t try to do something absurd like kiss it off. The rules of the universe can suck it, honestly. 

“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“You’re the one who said I didn’t know you anymore!”   
  
“I was not a drug mule,” Killian sighs, dropping his fork so he can run his fingers through his hair. “I was...a water mule.”   
  
“What does that mean?”   
  
“Cora said that once we got to the island, there’d be some people getting on the ship who had something for me. I was supposed to bring it back.”   
  
“Did you meet these people?” Ruby asks, business-like and Emma knows she wishes she had a notepad of some kind. She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket. 

“Yeah, that was kind of the problem.”  
  
“How so?”

Killian doesn’t shudder, but it’s awfully close, a nervousness to him that doesn’t match up with anything Emma knows about him. “There was a whole group of them. Each one of them shadier than the next and they all spoke in grunts, I swear.”  
  
“Sounds like lackeys.”   
  
“Yeah, probably. They didn’t know anything about Cora though, so the orders were coming from higher up and that’s kind of when I realized I’d gotten into something I wasn’t particularly interested in.”   
  
“What do you think that was?”   
  
“I don’t know exactly,” Killian admits. “But one of the goons handed me a vial of something that was, maybe, filled with water, demanded my immediate and complete silence and told me his boss was expecting me when I got back to New York.”   
  
“New York?” Emma asks.   
  
“That’s where the ship left from. I asked this guy what exactly it was I was supposed to be moving and how I was supposed to get it through security.”   
  
“I’m sure he didn’t appreciate that,” Ruby chuckles. 

“He did not, actually. He told me to shut my mouth and do my job and that, this is where it gets weird, his master wouldn’t be pleased if I deviated from the schedule.”  
  
Ruby’s eyebrows pull low. “He switched from boss to master?”   
  
“Weird, right?”   
  
“Super weird. And incredibly creepy. So what did you do after that?”   
  
“I told him that I thought there was a mistake,” Killian says with a laugh that sounds full of a slightly different brand of regret. “And that I wasn’t interested in shipping whatever product they were trying to move. I don’t remember much after that, but I do remember the vial falling and breaking. Goons one through six were not very happy about that. There was a lot of moanful grunting about it.”   
  
“There were six of them?” Emma breathes, not nearly as confident as she’d like to be. She rocks backwards on her heels when Killian slides off the counter, ignoring whatever Ruby is doing with all of her limbs as she steps into her space. 

There haven’t been very many moments in Emma’s life that stick. She’s made sure of it, run from the thoughts and the feelings and the relationships for years. This moment, however, seems determined to linger and fester and that second word is absolutely wrong. 

It doesn’t fester. It grows – the buzzing returning until it sounds like someone’s turned the metaphorical volume up as high as it will go on Emma’s life and soul and, possibly, the magic she’s done her best not to acknowledge for the last twenty years. 

None of that, however, holds a candle to whatever look settles on Killian’s face. It’s not quite understanding – there’s still that pesky rule hanging over their heads and she’ll tell him the truth at some point, eventually, she will – but for right now, this moment, she wants to memorize every shift of his face, the twitch of his lips and the turn of his eyebrows, hair falling almost artfully across his forehead when he tilts his head slightly. 

He doesn’t look scared of her. And, really, that’s what makes all the difference because Emma’s been a little scared of what she can do and terrified of what everyone else will do if they find out about her, but Killian just takes another step towards her and smiles as if everything is normal or could be normal and—

“I’m fine, love,” he promises. “I’m very good at surviving.”  
  
Ruby scoffs. The moment ends – with Killian’s hand hovering just a breath away from Emma’s side. “Right, right,” Ruby mumbles. “Sure you are. That’s all very well and good and everything, but you’ve thrown a very large wrench into a case that already makes a negative amount of sense. Plus, you know...you’re supposed to be dead.”   
  
“I think we’ve covered that several times, Rubes” Emma mutters. 

“And I don’t think Jones died in Storybrooke.”  
  
Emma is very glad they’re not open until ten. Ruby’s proclamation rings out in the empty restaurant, bouncing off walls and tables and half-filled napkin containers. It hangs there, taunting and teasing and it can’t possibly be true. 

It can’t possibly be...not true. 

“I think you died on that boat, Jones,” Ruby adds, rolling her eyes when Killian mutters _the technical term is ship_ under his breath. “And I really don’t care about that. But I think the goons killed you then and there and moved you to Storybrooke because you were some kind of very dreamy recluse who, if we’re keeping up appearances, should be dead in your hometown.”   
  
“But then why is Cora the one with the reward money?” Emma counters. “She’s the one who set this whole thing up.”   
  
“Unless she doesn’t really know who she was working for. Or she didn’t expect Jones to show up dead. Or she’s a little nervous about her own safety because Jones did show up dead. There’s plenty of reasons. All of which I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to answer when we go pay her a visit.”   
  
Emma does her best to form actual words. She does. It does not end well. And Ruby snickers at her. “Five figures, Em,” she says, pausing between each word to really drive her point home. “And whatever the uncles have offered now.”   
  
Killian jerks his arm back to his side. “They did what?”   
  
“Oh yeah, it’s not as much as Madam Mayor, but it’s a good amount and I think they’ve got some suspicions about you and your little jaunt to the...what water is Tahiti in? That doesn't matter. What does matter is that there’s more money being floated around and that means that more eyes are going to be on this and it’s in our best interest to figure it out.”   
  
“Don't you think that’s dangerous?” Emma asks, fighting the itch to start mixing something. 

“Oh, I think it’s incredibly dangerous. Except we’ve got a living, breathing dead person in this kitchen who’s involved in some kind of shady something and those same shady somethings will probably be very interested in him being alive. So solving Killian Jones’ murder seems to be our only option at this point.”  
  
Killian smiles at Emma – as if he’s won a competition they absolutely were not staging. She groans. “This is not a victory for you,” she hisses. “This is...how do you expect to just go outside? Graham knew who you were.”   
  
“He suspected,” Killian corrects. “And I’ll wear a hat. And sunglasses.”   
  
“Your ears look ridiculous in a hat.”   
  
“I hate to be that person, but I don’t think we should be all that worried about the fashion choices of the dead here,” Ruby says. 

“And you’re very worried about your own fashion choices.”  
  
“Ok, that’s rude. I am worried about you. Incredibly so, in fact. Because we’ve got a good thing going here and I...well, I am worried about you. That’s the headline.”   
  
It’s not a particularly impassioned speech, but it may be the most emotional Ruby’s gotten since Emma ran into her perp in an alley. Her heart strings are, effectively, tugged. And the guilt in the pit of her stomach churns. 

That’s less pleasant.  
  
“Fine,” Emma snaps, like she had any chance of convincing either one of them otherwise. “Fine. Let’s all solve a goddamn murder then. It’s not like I had pie to bake.”   
  
“Should be award-winning pie,” Killian adds. They’re definitely flirting. “And I’m serious about 30-30-40. Except from my uncles. That’s...there’s got to be a line, you know?”   
  
Ruby stops pouring the coffee Emma hadn’t realized she’d started pouring. “What exactly does that mean? Exactly?”   
  
“You said that twice.”   
  
“I’m going to get Emma to touch you.”   
  
“God, Rubes, that’s dark,” Emma grumbles. She’s run out of coffee. 

“I think I should get the forty percent of the reward because I died,” Killian says, easy as well, pie. “And we’re not taking money from my uncles. Nemo’s still sick. There’s gotta be some kind of morality clause in your familial PI code, right?”  
  
Ruby considers that for a moment before bursting out into a laugh that is so loud Emma glances at the walls to make sure the paint hasn’t been chipped. She’s still doubled over nearly thirty seconds later, body shaking and tears in her eyes and it’s a little concerning, but also kind of nice because it sounds real and Killian is still standing far too close to Emma. 

Like he can’t bring himself to move. 

“Yeah, yeah, that does seem fair actually,” Ruby nods, laughter still clinging to her words. “It wasn’t in the original instruction manual, but I doubt Granny was really prepared for people coming back from the dead.”  
  
“Magic’s got a way of sneaking up on you like that.”   
  
“I guess it does. And I guess we’re going back to Storybrooke, huh?” Killian hums, a barely visible shift of his weight that’s really a dismissal without the words. Ruby almost looks impressed. “I’ll, uh...I’ll give you guys a second.”

Emma needs to take the bell off her door. 

It’s far too loud, particularly when she can’t hear Killian breathing next to her. He turns on the spot, quick enough that Emma feels like she has to blink to make sure it’s really happening. It is. He’s still there. 

Looking at her. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, desperate to say something before he can. She’s a great, big, giant coward really. 

Killian’s mouth quirks up again. “Still as fine as advertised. And you stole my question, actually.”  
  
“There’s not anything to be worried about.”   
  
“With you or the situation in general?”   
  
“Me. Always.”   
  
“That’s a decidedly depressing mindset, Swan. I’d very much like to worry about you, at least for the time being. And I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.”   
  
Emma startles at the certainty there, the distinct lack of blinking or confusion. He’s positive. And he’s right. She makes another absurd noise. “I don’t know anything about you,” she points out. “It’s...we’re in the middle of something here and I just, well—”

“Why is it a minute?” 

“Why is what a minute?”  
  
“This whole magical side of you,” Killian says. “A minute seems incredibly arbitrary. It’s not a lot of time to do anything productive.”   
  
“You’d be surprised.”

He chuckles, tongue doing something incredibly unfair again. “You know I haven’t often been jealous of other people, but it seems to be a trend for me this morning.”  
  
“That’s ridiculous. Graham is not...we’re not like that.”   
  
“You may not be, Swan, but he certainly is. And I can’t say I blame him.”   
  
“That felt like flirting,” Emma accuses. 

“It was absolutely flirting. Was that not obvious? That’s frustrating. I am, admittedly, out of practice though, so...”  
  
“That’s surprising actually.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Emma nods, taking a step back to try and maintain her sanity. It seems to be slipping through her fingers the longer they stay in that kitchen. “I’m kind of out of practice with the flirting thing too,” she admits. “But, yes, it was meant to be. And, again, there’s no reason to be jealous. I’m talking to dead people.”  
  
“And then dead’ing them again.”   
  
“Usually.”   
  
“Alright, so we’ll work on the flirting then,” Killian promises, and Emma resents whatever her pulse does at that. He certainly hears it. “But why the minute? Did you decide that?”   
  
“A minute is a very long time. Plus, the longer someone is alive who isn’t really supposed to be alive, the more likely something is going to go wrong and people get very preachy when they realize life and death is in the balance.”

“I’m still here though. You’ve avoided kissing me on multiple occasions.”  
  
“That’s what you're worried about?”   
  
“Not in the way you’re thinking. Well, partially in the way you’re thinking, but mostly in the way that you said you’ve never done this before, right?” Emma nods. “And you don’t have some boyfriend aside from the love-struck waiter.” A less enthusiastic nod. Killian’s smile widens. “So,” he continues, leaning around her to grab something she can’t possibly be bothered looking at. “My main question before we dive into the seedy underbelly of the world is...why me?”   
  
“I told you that already,” Emma whispers, and she is not emotionally prepared to deal with this many emotions this early in the morning. Or ever. She can’t believe she still has so many emotions about Killian Jones. She desperately wants to brush his hair away from his eyebrows. 

“No, you did a rather horrible job of avoiding the question. So, I’ll ask you one more time, love, why didn’t you let me go?”  
  
Emma opens her mouth – certain _I couldn’t_ will come spilling out of her, again and on loop, but she meets his gaze and it’s all too much and not enough. He’d know if she was lying anyway. 

“I just thought it made more sense,” she says. “To have you there. I...I thought my life might be...better if you were in it. You know, again.”  
  
He’s infuriatingly quiet or a moment, gaze penetrating. That’s not altogether uncomfortable either. Emma doesn’t blink. 

And, that, _that_ , eventually seems like the turning point because it’s in that moment she realizes what exactly Killian is holding. 

Saran wrap.

He moves quickly, leading with his head so as not to touch her with anything else. The saran wrap isn’t perfectly tight between his fingers, a strange balancing act with only five fingers, but Emma’s too stunned to worry about that for too long and then she’s too amazed to be stunned and she’s wanted to kiss him since she saw him. 

Again. 

She moves forward, the taste of plastic on her tongue when she presses her lips against his. Her arms twist behind her, determined not to give into the metaphorical magnets that feel as if they’re yanking on Emma and begging her to card her fingers through Killian’s hair. 

She fists her hands, but she doesn’t pull away. Part of her is stunned, toying with fate and fire and the rules of the world, but the rest of Emma is screaming out in triumph, desperate to press her mouth closer to Killian’s, to breathe him in until he’s found his way back into the middle of everything. 

It feels impossibly easy. 

It always felt like that. 

Emma makes a noise, almost a groan and possibly a sigh and she can feel Killian’s smile through the twisted up saran wrap. Their noses bump.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she mumbles, not moving her head away. His laugh times up with the buzzing in her ears. 

“Consider it a well-executed science experiment.”  
  
“What would you have done if it didn’t work?”   
  
Killian shrugs. “I was pretty confident it would work.”   
  
“That’s not an answer.”   
  
“I really, really, really wanted to kiss you.” 

He bunches up the saran wrap before Emma can object, another quick press to her cheek that isn’t really to her cheek and she feels like she’s floating. She’s not sure she’s ever felt like that.

Ruby groans when she walks back into the restaurant. 

“Oh my God,” she sneers. “Is this our new normal? Because if it is, I’m taking my own car. Or that bus. It wasn’t really that bad.”  
  
“You made her take the bus, Swan?” Killian asks, tossing the saran wrap in the trash. Emma probably shouldn’t regret that. 

“I was trying to figure out how to get you away from your own coffin.”  
  
He beams at her. Ruby throws several napkins across the restaurant. 

“Can we go solve a murder, please? I’m sure Madam Mayor is very busy.”  
  
Emma takes a deep breath, glancing at a still-smiling Killian and the slight flush to his cheeks. She’s a little proud she put that there. “Yeah,” she nods. “Let’s go solve a murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for reading this. I do not remember any of these chapters being as long as they are. So, I think you guys are swell. And, just for the record as it were, the Pushing Daisies kiss through the plastic wrap is my favorite fictional kiss of all time. Let's solve a murder, huh?
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I'm inevitably shouting about the length of Chris Kreider's hair because THE RANGERS PLAY HOCKEY TONIGHT.


	4. Chapter 4

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-three days and, approximately, twelve hours and forty-two minutes old when her shoulder is nearly ripped out of her socket.

“Ow, jeez, what the hell, Ruby?” she hisses, gaping at her partner as soon as she tightens her hold on Emma’s wrist. “My health insurance is garbage. I can’t get injured here.”  
  
“Don’t you think we could sue the town of Storybrooke? I think you’re technically on city hall property at this point.”   
  
“Town hall,” Killian corrects. He’s leaning against the back door of Emma’s car, feet crossed at the ankle again which is only kind of infuriating in the way it makes Emma’s heart jump, but he’s also got a pinch between his eyebrows that wasn’t there when they left the restaurant. 

It’s because Emma made him sit in the backseat. 

And Ruby agreed. 

His arsenal of curses has gotten far more creative in the past two decades. One of the more nautical ones even made Ruby blush. 

Emma didn’t think she was capable of that. 

“Storybrooke is a town,” he continues when Ruby quirks a vaguely annoyed eyebrow in his direction. “If you want to get technical. The state of Maine is weird like that. Anything can really be a town, but a city has to be incorporated by a special act of the state legislature.”  
  
“Why do you know that?” Emma asks. “And, really? Anything can be a city? There’s not like...a population requirement.”   
  
“Usually. But Maine’s a strange place with strange laws and as discussed before, I’ve read some things in the last few years.”   
  
“That includes the requirements for a city to be formed?”   
  
“Incorporated.”   
  
“What a ridiculous word.”   
  
Killian hums, but the pinch between his eyebrows is still there and he looks a little cautious. Or nervous. That’s really the word for it. He looks nervous, as if whatever they’ll find out from Cora Mills at the Storybrooke Town Hall is going to change everything. 

Ruby still hasn’t let go of Emma’s wrist. 

Emma is slightly concerned about the blood flow to her hand. 

“The specifics of any of this could not possibly matter less,” Ruby hisses. “Jones, I need you to take a walk towards those very high bushes.”  
  
The pinch between his eyebrows is never going to disappear. “Excuse me?”   
  
“Did none of these encyclopedias you’ve read teach you how the English language works?”   
  
“Why do you think I was reading encyclopedias?”   
  
“Were you not?”   
  
“I mean,” he shrugs, “maybe at one point. Nemo had some really old ones that were mostly focused on the naval history of the world, but those weren’t very interesting and the pages were really fragile and—”   
  
“I do not care,” Ruby shouts, and Emma blinks at the absolute acid in her voice. She tries to yank her arm back to her side, but that works as well as trying to understand the absurd inner-workings of the Maine census bureau and only ends with Emma elbowing herself in the ribs. Ruby huffs dramatically, lips pursed. “A walk,” she repeats. “Towards those bushes where, presumably no one can see you and realize you’re breathing.”  
  
“Why are we yelling this?” Emma mumbles. Ruby’s answering glare could probably melt several thousand diamonds. 

Her grip could certainly crack them. 

And Emma isn’t really sure what’s changed in the car ride from her restaurant to the Storybrooke Town Hall, but there had been a lot of cursing and mumbling about _acting like I’m a little kid_ and _sounds like Liam_ and that second one had made her breath catch in her throat and Ruby was always very good at reading her face. 

Which she could see perfectly. From the front seat of Emma’s car. 

Oh, damn. 

“Maybe just one second,” Emma says, glancing at Killian to find him staring at her like it’s the first time he’s ever seen her. Ruby squeezes her nails into Emma’s wrist. “Or,” she amends. “Like thirteen seconds. Just...to come up with a plan of attack.”  
  
Killian clicks his teeth at that, eyebrows lifting, which doesn’t do much to help the very obvious _whatever_ that settles on every inch of his face – something that looks like surprise and feels like disappointment and the buzzing in between Emma’s ears sputters into nothing. He’s chewing on the side of his tongue, a nervous habit he picked up when he was seven and Liam let them watch _Friday the 13th_ on Halloween with the lights off and enough candy to make Emma regret her distinct lack of dental insurance again. 

“Huh,” he mutters, barely audible over the sounds of the town. 

They’re familiar sounds – a few cars and some kid riding their bike because it’s August and there’s a hint of humidity in the air that’s already starting to make the ends of Emma’s hair curl. She can hear an ice cream truck a few blocks away and mosquitos and someone needs to get their air conditioner checked out because it can’t be good for it to be that noisy. 

Emma shifts awkwardly on her feet, trying, and failing, again, to regain control of her right arm, but Ruby must have been a wrestler in another life because she’s got some kind of choke-hold and, clearly, no intention of letting go. 

“It’s just thirteen seconds,” Emma says, but her voice sounds like the lie it is and her own nerves are obvious in every single syllable. Killian’s lips twist. 

“At least. For your plan of attack.”  
  
“We just...you know, we like to be prepared going into stuff like this.”   
  
“Murder investigations.”   
  
“Well, to be fair, I’m not usually dealing with people who are alive. We’ve got more time and I don’t want to, you know, waste that.”   
  
“Seems impossible when you’re used to only a minute,” Killian says, and Emma is single-handedly digging herself into the world’s biggest ditch. She’s a little worried Ruby’s nails have cut her arm. 

“You don’t actually have to stand in the bushes.”  
  
Ruby scoffs, her own mumbled curses, and Killian’s lips twitch. “I had no intention of standing in the bushes. You better attack though, Swan. Lucas looks like she’s growing talons.”   
  
“Claws, honestly.”   
  
“I am standing right here,” Ruby seethes. 

Emma shrugs, glancing over her shoulder and she hadn’t realized she’d moved away from Ruby. Or closer to Killian. Honestly she’s going to write a twenty-seven page research paper on the possibility of magnets in the real world and how goddamn inconvenient they are. 

“And whose fault is that?” Emma asks. “Alright, I really do have garbage health insurance, so if we could avoid bodily harm before we deal with a maybe murderer, that’d be great. C’mon.”

She, finally, regains control of her arm, moving a few feet down the sidewalk and leaving Killian with the car and the anxiety practically radiating off him. 

And, really, Emma has every intention of controlling the conversation from the get-go, a determination that’s almost impressive because she’s having a very difficult time remembering to breathe consistently, but then Ruby is in front of her and the sun appears to be reflecting off the highlights in her hair and she’s doing that foot tapping thing. 

Emma hates that foot tapping thing. 

“Is this where you yell?” Emma asks, Ruby already shaking her head. 

“No, this is where I do the asking several very important questions and you tell me the God’s honest truth or I swear to God I will push you in traffic.”  
  
“In traffic?”   
  
“Is that not threatening enough?”

Emma makes a contradictory noise in the back of her throat. “I feel like people would probably stop their cars. Or I’d still have the ability to dodge. I think I could dodge.”  
  
“Your reflexes are not that good,” Ruby promises. “And we are wasting time. Also, do you think Jones knows how to read lips?”   
  
“I’ve got no idea.”   
  
“What do you know about him?”   
  
The question seems unfairly large to start with, but Emma’s got a sinking suspicion that’s not actually one of Ruby’s questions and the weight of disappointment that settles in her gut at the realization that she may not actually have an answer is somewhere close to horrendous. 

“Your silence is overwhelming.”  
  
Emma blinks, trying to push impossible tears back in their ducts and she’s going to chew her lower lip in half before the day is over. “It’s not...ok, I know that’s not what you wanted to ask, so can we get to the point of this—”  
  
“—No, no, I wanted to ask that. Because I think there’s some seriously shady things happening here and a group of goons on some tourist cruise who call some other dude master is a little terrifying, don’t you think?”   
  
“I don’t think Killian was working for that guy.”   
  
“Do you know that for sure? Can you know that for sure?” Emma bites her lip again. There’s blood in her mouth. It’s disgusting. And Ruby sighs. “All I’m saying is maybe we should be careful and I…” She exhales, eyes going dangerously thin and Emma braces herself for the riot act. What she gets is almost worse. “Are you in love with him? Is it that brand of stupid?”

Emma’s right knee gives out. Only her right one. It’s kind of weird, but that seems to just be the sub-headline of her life now. And, at least, she doesn’t fall down. 

So, comparatively…

“No,” Emma says, but the word feels heavy and incorrect and Ruby’s head tilt is almost vibrating with judgment. “No.”  
  
“No?”

“No.”  
  
“I’m going to tell you that I don’t believe you, but—”   
  
“—I killed his brother.”

The words fly out of Emma’s mouth, her eyes widening with her own surprise and the noise Ruby makes is not of this world. It sounds like an alien has settled into her body and realized what a god awful race humans are and then decided, unequivocally, that Emma is the worst of the worst and is now desperate to get off this planet. 

The greenhouse gasses are pretty horrible anyway. That’s probably Emma’s fault too. 

Ruby brings both her hands to her temples, blinking far too quickly to be anything except jarring and Emma is running out of lip to bite. She moves to her cheek. 

“Ok, hold on a second,” Ruby mutters. “That is...when? Recently? I thought he said his brother died when he was ten.”  
  
“He did.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what? I…” Emma trails off, yanking on the ends of her humidity-ruined hair. They are going way over their thirteen-second limit. “The very short story is that the EMTs said Ingrid suffered a brain hemorrhage. Incredibly rare, immediately fatal and I...didn’t know that. So—”   
  
“—Oh my God, you touched her,” Ruby finishes. This is not the first time she’s heard this particular part of the story. Emma nods. “And that meant that…”   
  
Her hand flies to her mouth, but it doesn’t do much to silence the gasp she makes. Emma swats at both of her arms, desperate to quiet her or silence whatever guilt is bouncing around her skull and neither thing works. She can feel Killian casting curious glances their direction. 

“I am going to push you in traffic,” Emma warns. “And you will trip over your own heels.”  
  
Ruby scowls, absurd with her hand still plastered over her mouth. “You are questionably obsessed with my fashion choices. But Ingrid died. That’s why you had to leave Storybrooke.”   
  
“I know. But, ok, you cannot make any noise, do you understand me?” Ruby nods slowly, and there will probably be handprint marks smearing her lipstick. “I came into the kitchen and Ingrid was dead. Sudden and real and I was nine. I didn’t think...I just reacted and then she was alive and I was so happy, but then...well, the universe is a dick and—”  
  
Emma can’t bring herself to finish. 

The tears on her cheeks are distracting.

Ruby pulls her hand away from her mouth – lipstick somehow in place, which is actually almost comforting – wrapping her fingers around Emma’s wrist in a way that’s even more comforting. “Does he know?” 

Emma shakes her head. “No. I didn’t know at first. I had no idea what the rules were or are and I wasn’t trying to do that. I...I loved Liam too and he was so good for Killian and Killian...oh, he idolized him. But then I was leaving and he kept saying I was going to come back and—”  
  
“—You didn’t ever come back.”   
  
“No.”

“Did you want to?”  
  
“Every single day.”   
  
Ruby exhales through her teeth, and they’re all going to need extensive dental work by the time this is over. “Ok, so, uh...that leads us almost directly to my number one, top of the list, most important question of all time. Who died to make sure Killian Jones didn’t?”   
  
“I have no idea,” Emma admits, those particular words far more difficult to say than a secret she’d like to kept under metaphorical lock and key for the rest of her mortal life. 

“Yeah, I figured you were going to say something horrible like that. How does that even work? Is it an age thing? Does it have to be relatively similar.”  
  
Emma shrugs. “I think it’s a general proximity thing.”   
  
“I was like twenty feet away from you!”

“I wasn’t really thinking,” Emma reasons. “That’s not an excuse, it’s just a fact. I would have been upset if you died.”  
  
“Wow, your charity is overwhelming, Em. You know what, I’m going to take all of your reward. Screw that. I didn’t realize I was playing with fire here.”   
  
“Metaphorically, I guess.”   
  
Ruby kicks at her ankle, nose scrunched. “You make jokes when you're nervous. It’s a coping mechanism.” She grits her teeth, more exaggerated breathing that Emma supposes is warranted in the moment. “And you know what this means?”

“Should I?”  
  
“There’s another body somewhere with no reasonable explanation for its death.”   
  
Emma’s left knee gives out. “Oh, well, shit.”   
  
“That’s eloquent.”   
  
“You have something better to suggest?”   
  
“Nah,” Ruby says, a grin that feels wholly out of place in a conversation filled with so much death. Emma wishes there weren’t always so much death involved. “But I bet if you ask your boyfriend he’d be able to help. I think he was using some pirate ones before. He seems like a practical treasure trove of frustrated curses.”   
  
“Are you making jokes now?”   
  
Ruby shrugs, hand moving to Emma’s shoulder. “It’s an observation. And you didn’t contradict boyfriend, just for the record or whatever.”   
  
“I don’t have time to be worried about antiquated relationship qualifiers,” Emma mumbles, but the butterflies in her stomach have returned and she wants to know every single thing Killian has learned in the last two decades. 

She really doesn’t want to tell him she killed his brother. 

On accident. 

Kind of. 

She wouldn’t mind kissing him again. 

“Yeah, sure you don’t,” Ruby laughs. “Alright, well, we’ve got a serious check-list of things we need to accomplish before anyone else realizes we’re trying to accomplish them. No time like the present, right?”

She’s gone before Emma can begin to formulate a response – a twist of red and hair that doesn’t appear prone to humidity and a very particular shine to her shoes that Emma is almost certain she’s developed on her own. 

And Killian is exactly where they left him. 

He licks his lips as soon as his eyes dart towards Emma, eyebrows raised in silent question. They’d always been very good at that, silent communication that used to drive Ingrid and Liam insane in equal measure until Liam threw his whole head back and taught them morse code so they could at least _learn something practical_ and they used to flash lights at each other from across the street when they were supposed to be asleep. 

“Everything alright?” he asks, and Emma makes a noise that is the audible version of the worst lie she’s ever told. “That so?”  
  
“I didn’t actually say anything.”   
  
“Yeah, you didn’t really have to, did you?”   
  
“The mind reading thing isn’t nearly as cute as you think it is.”   
  
The tongue stuff has got to stop. It means Emma keeps thinking about Killian’s tongue and that’s a dangerous line of thought and maybe they should get him some new clothes. Seeing him in the clothes he was supposed to be buried in is disconcerting. 

“So you think I’m dreamy and cute?” Killian asks, pushing off the car at the same time his eyebrows defy several laws of gravity. Emma swallows. She wonders how much it would hurt to have to get stitches in her lip. “That’s quite a tandem don’t you think?”

“I think you’re way too confident for your own good and it’s going to get us in trouble.”  
  
“What other trouble could I possibly get into, Swan? I’ve already been dead once in the last forty-eight hours, seems to cover most of my bases doesn’t it?”   
  
Emma sighs. “Can you pull your hat down? There’s too much of your hair showing.”

He does as asked, tugging with almost too much force. “No one is going to notice me,” Killian says, a promise he can’t possibly make in the middle of a town that knows far too much about both of them. “It’s the middle of the day, anyway. Cora’s probably the only person in the building. You know how she hates to delegate, works through lunch and—”  
  
“Yeah, uh,” Ruby interrupts, moving back towards the sidewalk and Emma hadn’t even realized she’d gone into the building. “No one’s really doing anything with lunch in there. Or doing much of anything. At all.”   
  
“What does that mean?” Emma asks. 

“This creepy Cora? She’d likely be at a desk that says mayor on a very fancy plaque? Dark hair? Suit that costs more than my yearly rent?”  
  
Killian nods. “All of the above.”   
  
“Yeah, she’s very dead.”   
  
Both of Emma’s knees give out – and she knows Killian moves, an immediate reaction that is equal parts dreamy and cute and absolutely impossible because she’s not wearing nearly enough clothing and there are rules and he can’t catch her. 

She stumbles forward, balance no more than almost precarious as Ruby’s fingers curl around her elbow. “Deep breaths, Em. It’s fine. It’s...you know, it’s fine.”  
  
“That was almost as bad as Swan,” Killian mumbles, arm still outstretched like he’ll be able to do something. It takes them all a moment to realize it’s his left arm. He grimaces as soon as his eyes land on the skin there, the sleeve of his shirt hanging over the edge and Emma wants a lot more than she should ever be allowed to even consider, but more than anything she wants to pull his arm into her hands and hold him there and promise it will be ok because he’s ok and it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, them or him or whatever they may be dealing with in the moment, because he looks at her like nothing is wrong. 

He looks at her like he’s been hoping to find her every single day he’s woken up and it’s a feeling Emma understands and wants and maybe Ruby is right. 

That’s kind of annoying. 

Emma hates when Ruby is right. She’s a bad sport about it.

“Did it...well, what do we do?” Killian continues. 

Ruby grins. “What we normally do.”  
  
“You want to—” He glances at Emma, mouth hanging open. She tries to smile. It fails miserably. “Oh, yeah, ok,” Killian nods, sounding as if he’s trying to convince himself. “Is that ok, Swan?”

She wishes things would stop surprising her. It can’t possibly be good for her blood pressure or the apparently shoddy state of her knees. But he says it with such sincerity and that hat looks absolutely ridiculous, makes the slight point of ears Emma always teased him about when they were little even more obvious, and he keeps having to push the sunglasses they found in the glove compartment up. 

Emma nods brusquely. “Yeah, of course. I mean...that’s what you were saying before, right? This is kind of my schtick.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant. I just...you were plotting.”   
  
“I wasn’t plotting without you.”   
  
“That’s not what it looked like.”   
  
“Ok, we genuinely do not have time for this,” Ruby says, cutting in before Emma can say something absurdly sentimental and decidedly out of place for what has just become another crime scene. “We have negative amount of time for this. Let’s go talk to creepy Cora Mills and get the hell out of here before someone realizes the lurker in the weird hat is dead.”   
  
“He’s not dead,” Emma growls, but Ruby just waves her hands in her face and nods as if that word isn’t kind of offensive. 

Killian smiles at her. “It is a kind of weird hat though, Swan.”  
  
“It’s not a weird hat! And you’re not dead. Can we please stop using that word? It’s--it’s messing with my head and, like, my lungs and—”   
  
“—You’ve got to breathe, love.”   
  
“How are you so calm about this?” 

They’re frozen in the doorway of the Storybrooke Town Hall, far too close and not close enough. Ruby is tapping her heel on marble tile now. “I’m not,” Killian says with an ease that belies the look on his face. “I’m frustrated and annoyed and pissed off. At the world and Cora Mills and goons one through six and kind of at you for never coming back because I always wanted you to come back and I wondered and—”  
  
She can see every single one of his teeth when he cuts himself off, and Emma wishes he’d stop doing that, but she figures it’s kind of unfair to demand proper sentence structure at this point. 

“I was dead, Swan,” he says, expression softening when Emma makes a face. “That’s a fact. But then you showed up and changed that and I...well, I wasn’t...if this is as dangerous as it might be then I don’t want anything to happen to you.”  
  
“Oh.”   
  
It’s the worst response. It’s an absolutely lame response, but Emma’s always been a little worried that she’s missing some fundamental piece of her empathy chip and she twists her arms behind her back again to stop herself from touching him. 

“Oh?”  
  
“Oh,” Emma repeats, whatever disgusted sound Ruby makes at their distinct lack of conversational progress bouncing off the far too ostentatious walls around them. “I—well, that was kind of nice.”   
  
“That was kind of the goal.”   
  
“Right. Right, well, mission accomplished, I guess. And, uh...that hat came from a baking contest a couple years ago.”   
  
“You were in a baking contest?”   
  
“You were making jokes about award-winning pie, but it’s almost true. The five-berry one was described as something close to life-changing.”   
  
“Seems to be a trend,” Killian mutters. He moves his hand again, a quick brush of fingertips over the curve of Emma’s shoulder and he shakes his head as soon as she tries to tell him to _stop that, God._ “That was the last time. Just...making sure.”   
  
Emma doesn’t have to ask what he means – knows he’s making sure she’s there and real and this would almost make more sense if it were some very lucid dream. But she figures she wouldn't want to torture herself even in a dream and Emma’s inability to touch a guy she maybe hopes could be referred to as her boyfriend in regular conversation is something she’ll have to contend with eventually. Once they solve his murder and the trail of bodies that seem to be piling up behind him. 

“Let’s go,” Ruby groans from the other end of the hallway. 

“It’s not like Cora’s getting up and walking away,” Emma mutters, working a laugh out of Killian. 

“At least not yet. C’mon, love, I’d rather Cora’s assistant didn’t find us while we were in the middle of this.”

Cora Mills, mayor of Storybrooke since, quite possibly, the dawn of time, looks almost exactly the way Emma remembers her. 

There’s more gray to her hair, a few more wrinkles around her eyes, but she’s still got an air of superiority around her that sets Emma’s teeth on edge. Her suit definitely cost a ridiculous amount of money and the manicure looks nearly immaculate – except on her right hand. It’s not the whole thing, but three of her fingers are missing nails and—

“Oh my God, Cora Mills gets acrylic nails,” Emma laughs. 

“Is that a clue of some sort?” Killian asks, earning more laughter for more sincerity and it is really getting very difficult not to hold his hand. 

“Ah, I like that you said clues. And, no, well, maybe, but...I guess it’s just funny. Acrylic nails are so...tacky.”  
  
“Ok, that’s not true at all,” Ruby argues. She’s already picking her way through piles of paperwork, a determined look on her face that usually ends in several stacks of bills untraceable by the IRS. “These aren’t just acrylic. They’re gel and hard gel at that.”   
  
“I feel like she’s speaking in code,” Killian says, perched on the edge of Cora’s desk. 

Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Should you be up there?”  
  
“What’s she going to do to stop me?”   
  
“Jesus,” Ruby growls. “The flirting is honestly disgusting. Also, I am not speaking in code. I am speaking in spa.”   
  
“What’s the difference?”   
  
“The difference is that hard gel eventually becomes, as its name implies, hard enough to basically be an extension of the nail. Getting those off is some kind of serious bitch. You’ve got to be totally committed to the color.”   
  
“None of this makes sense,” Emma fumes, bobbing on her feet and she’s unreasonably nervous to touch a dead person in front of Killian. “Can I just touch her so we can get out of here?”   
  
Ruby doesn’t look up from the papers she’s leafing through when she answers. “No one is stopping you, but you’re missing a very important point.”   
  
“You lord information over other people when you want to feel in control of a situation.”   
  
“And why do you think might I feel out of control in this particular situation?”   
  
“Oh, shit, no I get it,” Killian says, jumping off the desk with enough enthusiasm that Emma is really starting to wonder if time travel is possible. “Fuck, that’s not great, is it?”   
  
“We won’t know until Emma touches her.”   
  
Emma rolls her whole head. “What am I missing?”   
  
“Lucas is right, we won’t know until Cora tells us, but,” Killian starts, grinning like a maniac who just discovered what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street, “If hard gel requires a commitment to the color scheme, that means it would take one hell of a fight to pull the nails off, right?” Ruby nods, something that feels like PI pride hanging off her shoulders. “And that means that Cora didn’t just die under natural circumstances.”   
  
“I kind of figured that part was obvious considering your rather untimely murder,” Ruby muses. “But I wasn’t sure there was a fight until I noticed Madam Mayor’s rather grimy hands. She didn’t go down quietly.”   
  
“If you knew Cora, you’d understand that’s very in character.”   
  
“Well, I feel as if it’s time for me to meet the great and powerful Oz.”   
  
“That wasn’t funny,” Emma mumbles. Ruby laughs anyway. “Alright,” she huffs, jumping up and down as if that will work out her influx of nervous energy. Killian smirks at her. “I am nervous about this with you here.”   
  
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”   
  
Ruby gags. Again. For at least twenty-one seconds straight. “There is a dead person here. Let’s try and keep some perspective. Also what did you say about that assistant?”   
  
“Aurora was terrified of Cora,” Killian reasons. “I doubt she’ll be back before the end of lunch. And you’ve got nothing to be worried about, Swan. It’s not going to change anything.”   
  
He can’t possibly mean it the way it sounds, but Emma’s brain doesn’t care. It latches to those words and that particular curve of his lips, confident in her and whatever magic she may be in possession of to fix things and control things she shouldn’t be able to control. Killian nods again when Emma wavers, his smile shifting slightly when he raises his right hand to cover his eyes. 

“That better?” he asks. 

Emma has to look down to make sure her entire body has not exploded into flames. It has not. That’s nice. “Yeah,” she breathes. “That’s...that’s good.”

“Can we get on with it?” Ruby drawls. She’s started opening drawers. 

“You may want to move,” Emma suggests. “Sometimes they can get a little flaily when they just wake up.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, good point.”   
  
She takes the whole drawer with her when she steps to the other side of the office. 

Emma takes a deep breath, tugging her phone out of her pocket and setting the timer and she’s almost pleased to notice that her finger doesn’t shake when she brushes over Cora’s hand. Killian’s fingers shift. 

He’s still smiling. 

And Cora does, in fact, flail. Her limbs are everywhere, impossibly agile and decidedly threatening, even with a few less nails than she’s normally used to. She jerks back as soon as Emma touches her, eyes crazed with a snarl on her face that’s only slightly intimidating. 

Her head snaps around, taking in her surroundings as if she’s surprised to find herself still in the office where she, presumably, died a few minutes earlier. 

“Oh,” Cora says, some of the fight almost visibly falling off her. “That’s—” She glances around again, and the curse she growls at all of them as soon as her eyes land on Killian is enough to make Emma’s hair curl without any humidity involved. ‘No, no, no,” Cora stammers. “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“That’s the million dollar question isn’t it?” Killian asks. “Who killed you, Cora?”   
  
“Where’s your hand?”

“Full of tact as always, ma’am.”  
  
“That’s not a question of tact, although if you’d like to discuss upbringing, I’d be only too happy to share some thoughts on your uncles and what they’ve done to that beautiful house.”   
  
“Did you think I had both of my hands when I died?”

“I didn’t think they’d take it, no.”  
  
“They?”   
  
“Listen,” Emma interrupts. “You’ve got like...fifty seconds to tell us everything that’s happened to you today and why you’re missing nails.”   
  
Cora blinks. “I wasn’t going to sit there and take it. That goon—”   
  
“—A goon,” Ruby cuts in. “What kind of goon?”   
  
“Is this heaven? Because that’s...well, that’s a little surprising, honestly.”   
  
“It’s not heaven,” Killian promises. “But there’s the possibility for some serious karmic retribution if you answer our questions. I make no guarantees about where you’ll end up, although I imagine not being a complete and utter harpy can only help you.”   
  
Cora laughs, dark and threatening. “Oh, you were always far too confident for your own good, Jones. I’d imagine the people who killed me are the same people who got rid of you. Although why they brought you back to Storybrooke, I’ll never understand.”   
  
“Is that why you offered the reward?” Ruby asks. “Covering your own ass?”   
  
“That’s a little crass, but sufficient.”   
  
“Who were these people?” Killian presses. “You never actually said.”   
  
“And yet you were only all too happy to agree weren’t you? Desperate to get out of this town and away from this life. It was the perfect opportunity for both of us.”   
  
“Explain that.”

Cora bristles at the command, Emma still sitting there silent and nervous and she hates how knowing the gaze that flashes towards her is. “Oh,” Cora says. “There’s something interesting about you, isn’t there? And it...it matches up with his.”  
  
Emma jerks her head up. “Who’s what?”   
  
“Jones. Can’t you feel that? Ah, well maybe you can’t, but that’s always been my own particular talent. That’s why they recruited me of course.”   
  
“Who?” Killian shouts, standing up and Emma hears Ruby’s breath hitch. He’s furious, that much is obvious, but it’s more than that, a hint of darkness and frustration that wasn’t there when they were kids and it makes him feel taller and more threatening than anything else in that room. “You’re running out of time here, Cora. Straight answers.”   
  
“Fine,” she snaps. “Sit down, you’re acting like a petulant child. I’ve...well, I’ve been endowed with several gifts in my life and one of my more...appealing gifts is the ability to see into someone’s heart.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“If you’d like an explanation, then it’s probably in your best interest not to interrupt.” Killian doesn’t sit down, but he doesn’t say anything else and Emma moves to the front of her seat when his fingers wrap around the back of her chair. “As I was saying,” Cora continues. “I’m rather good at seeing what people want. Deepest desires and darkest feelings, those hopes and needs we’ve done our best to hide away from the rest of the world. And our mutual employer found that very interesting. He wanted someone with your particular abilities to help him, Mr. Jones.”   
  
“I don’t have any particular abilities,” Killian says. Emma hopes she doesn’t crack the chair.

Cora shakes her head, smile turning mocking. “I believed that for a very long time too, but that’s not true. I can see it, Mr. Jones and I can feel it. It’s...not quite as strong as Ms. Swan, yes, I remember you too, but it’s there. And it seems to time up very well with hers.”  
  
“With my what?” Emma demands, almost too aware of the ticking seconds on her phone. 

“Why your magic, of course. Both of you. It’s admittedly unfortunate that you had to die for it, Mr. Jones, but I’d imagine you walked right into it.”

“There’s no magic here,” Killian says, but Cora is already shaking her head and looking far too smug. She narrows her eyes. 

“The darkness is always interested in finding more of us whenever he can.”  
  
Emma freezes, mouth hanging open and breath coming in decidedly unattractive pants. Killian curses – loudly. And they almost suffer another disaster, a case of proximity and the whims of the universe, but Ruby’s shrill _Emma, fuck_ wakes her up and she more or less slaps Cora across the face. 

It’s oddly satisfying. 

None of them say anything. There’s not much to say. Magic is a child’s story, but Emma can wake the dead and make sure they stay dead and the buzzing in her head roared to life at Cora’s words, like it was reveling in them and there’s got to be an explanation for this. 

This explanation, however, only seems to spark more questions. 

That’s less satisfying. 

“So,” Ruby says, eventually breaking the silence and Cora looks worse now than she did when they first found her. “That uh...didn’t really help us much at all, did it?”

“None of that made sense,” Killian mutters. “That’s—”

“—You going to tell me that magic is impossible when you just watched your girlfriend undead and redead someone?”  
  
“There’s got to be a better way of phrasing that,” Emma mumbles. She lets her head drop forward, colliding with the wood of the desk painfully. 

Ruby makes a noise that is, hopefully, an agreement. “Yeah, probably. So, uh...you do anything magical recently, Jones?”  
  
“That’s the part that doesn’t make any sense,” he says. “I never even learned how to do card tricks. I...I wanted to get out of Storybrooke and Cora gave me an avenue to do that while helping Nemo. That’s all there was to it.”   
  
“Still doesn’t help us much as far as figuring out who you were both, apparently, working for.”   
  
“She said him,” Emma whispers, the realization striking her like lightning and several other natural disasters. She hears Killian shift, letting go of the chair to move around her and he’s crouched next to her when she moves her head. “Cora, I mean. Whatever she was talking about with magic. She said the darkness is looking for that, but she said him. As in a human male.”   
  
“Or an alien male,” Ruby suggests. “Let’s be as inclusive as possible. Could even be an animal, right? A really dangerous...dark cat? What’s a terrifying animal? Oh, God, what about an alligator? Right, right? Apex predator.”

“It’s a crocodile,” Killian mutters. His knees must be killing him. He doesn’t try to stand up. “Those jaws could snap a whole person right in half. Plus, they’re scaly, so that just makes them untrustworthy. Thoughts, Swan?”

Emma can’t shrug when she’s more or less draped across a dead mayor’s desk and they are pressing their luck staying that office with the same dead mayor, but she makes a valiant effort and that’s really all she can ask of herself right now. “You said it was shady, didn’t you? The whole thing on the boat—ship, yeah, God, that’s...it’s stupid that you keep doing that.”  
  
“It’s a control thing,” Killian admits with a smile. “But, yeah, it felt incredibly shady. And...wrong.”   
  
“What does that mean?”   
  
“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a complete and total crazy person.   
  
“Try me.” 

Killian sighs, but it’s not frustration. It’s more nerves and concern and Emma knows part of that, most of it really, is directed at her. She’s going to give herself carpal tunnel from tensing her fists so often. “It felt wrong,” he starts. “I don’t...it was like I could hear it.”  
  
Emma’s elbow falls off the desk. She’s very glad she’s already sitting down. “You could hear what? Exactly?”   
  
“Buzzing?”   
  
“Why was that a question?”   
  
“Because you seem to already have a very strong idea of what my answer was going to be, Swan.”

“God,” Ruby chuckles. “When this is all over, Jones, remind me to offer you a job. You’re incredibly good at reading people.”  
  
He shakes his head, eyes not leaving Emma. “Just her.”

The rush of _everything_ that shoots from the top of Emma’s head to the very tips of her toes isn’t quite as overwhelming as it probably should be. She’s got her suspicions about that – the look on Killian’s face and how goddamn blue his eyes are and whatever his mouth does when, she assumes, he feels it too – but Emma’s never been very good at actually voicing her emotions. 

And Killian has always known anyway. 

Plus Ruby would probably make fun of them. 

“Did you feel that?” Emma asks softly, another unnecessary question. They need to get out of Storybrooke. She’s going to bake twenty-six pies. At least. 

Killian nods. “Did you hear that?”  
  
“The buzzing?”   
  
“The buzzing.”   
  
“Yeah, I did.”   
  
“Ok, good.”   
  
“Good?” Emma echoes, and her voice cracks traitorously on the word. Killian moves, shifting his weight back onto his heels as soon as she presses her lips back together. He wiggles his fingers, like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her and Emma is fairly sure she doesn’t imagine his mumbled _fuck it_ before he reaches forward, stopping just short of the bend in her knee. He doesn’t touch her. 

That’s for the best. 

Or so she’ll tell herself on loop while she bakes those twenty-six pies. 

“It means we’re both equally crazy,” Killian mutters, Ruby cackling at the sentiment. Emma blinks, not quite crying, but drifting dangerously close and her shoulders droop when she exhales loudly. 

“Yeah, I think it might be exactly that.”

“Well, now that we’ve settled all of that,” Ruby announces, stuffing what appear to be a few receipts into her jacket pocket, “let’s say we evacuate the crime scene, do a little bit more research on some kind of mythical darkness from the outer reaches of space and then maybe get Jones some new clothes to wear?”  
  
"I really don’t think we’re dealing with aliens,” Emma reasons. 

“And where exactly do you suggest we get me new clothes?” Killian adds, holding his arm out when Emma moves towards the office door. She mutters _gentleman_ under her breath and he winks at her. “I don’t know that some kind of makeover montage is really in order,”   
  
Ruby sticks her tongue out. “I have clothes.”   
  
“I’m not sure I’d be able to keep my balance in your heels.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, you’re absolutely hysterical. And you couldn’t even hold your own in my heels. But you might be able to do something in some t-shirts.”   
  
“At least solve a few more crimes.”   
  
“I think we’re still just dealing with one.”   
  
“Small miracles,” Emma mumbles. “Although you should get some new clothes. These are…”   
  
She doesn’t finish – not sure if it’s offensive or just plain ridiculous, but they were also just talking about aliens, so Emma figures she’s well within her right when it comes to ridiculous. 

“Yeah, it is a little macabre, isn’t it?” Killian asks. 

“Good word.”  
  
“Voracious reader with a very smart vocabulary.”   
  
“Is that what you tell all the girls when you meet them?”   
  
He snorts. Ruby groans. “No,” Killian says. “That’s what Shakespeare used to say when I’d use that same smart vocabulary to tell him that no one was interested in hearing another soliloquy.”   
  
“Did he recite soliloquies often?”   
  
“Almost as often as he liked to critique my clothing choices. He was never very big on the leather jackets.”   
  
Emma’s reaction to _that_ is one-hundred percent more ridiculous than the alien idea. “Huh.”   
  
The tips of Killian’s ears go red. 

“That was super smooth, Em,” Ruby mutters, ushering them both back into the hallway as soon as the footsteps in the hallway start to grow louder. “But I’m not super interested in getting arrested this afternoon, so, if you two would be so kind…”

Emma nods quickly, Killian tugging his hat further down and pushing the sunglasses back up the bridge of his nose. They’re back in the car, key turning in the ignition when they hear, what Emma assumes, is Aurora’s scream. 

* * *

“How did you decide you wanted to open a pie place?” 

Emma tilts her head, several hours after a fashion clinic in Ruby’s apartment and Ruby’s absolute refusal to explain why she had so much disposable clothing of the men-type variety. “Pie place,” she repeats slowly, stirring the mixture in front of her. 

Killian grabs a strawberry. 

“Ok, stop that,” Emma snaps, but there’s a distinct lack of annoyance in her voice. It’s almost too obvious how easily he’s charming her. “We’re not going to have anything to put in the pie. And this was your idea.”  
  
It was – laden down with _at least a week’s worth of clothes and a few options for shirts because, you know, you need some extra shirts, Jones_ , Killian and Emma had walked back to her restaurant, slightly cautious steps because, for the first time since this had all started, there was a break in the action and a lull in the momentum and he asked if she’d bake something. 

“I can help,” Killian added quickly, flashing her a smile, _her smile_ , and Emma couldn’t argue with that. He’d probably been banking on that. 

“And it was a very good idea,” Killian says. “I’m just trying to spark some conversation while you do whatever it is you’re doing. What is it you’re doing, incidentally?”  
  
“Making crust.”   
  
“You make your crust?”   
  
“Oh my God, that’s honestly the rudest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Killian shakes his head, reaching forward to try and steal a handful of raspberries. “That can’t possibly be true.”  
  
“It is and then some,” Emma promises. “You think I...what? Use frozen pie crust in my actual pie restaurant? That’s ghastly.”   
  
He nearly chokes on his handful of raspberries. “Did you just suggest that frozen pie crust is ghastly? Did that really just happen?”   
  
“It is. It’s all processed and there’s way too much sugar in it and it’s not good. It’s...there’s no feeling involved.”   
  
Killian doesn’t freeze, exactly, but it’s awfully close and Emma wonders if, maybe, some of Cora’s claimed magic has shifted to him. Like a magical barnacle. She kind of feels as if he can see straight into her or through her, she’s not sure which is worse. 

“You bake with a lot of feeling, Swan?” 

“No,” Emma grumbles. She needs to find a whisk. And buttermilk. “Can you open the fridge for me? And if you try and steal any more of my filling, I’m going to hide all your clothes on you and then what will you do?”  
  
“That seems to suggest you think I won’t leave the apartment in your clothes.”

“I bet you a magillion dollars you would not do that.”  
  
His shoulders shake with his laugh – the sound finding its way to Emma’s ears despite most of his head pushed into the refrigerator. “How many zeros would you say are in a magillion? Also what am I looking for in here? You haven’t actually given me any instructions.”   
  
“Oh, uh, buttermilk and just like...as much butter as you can carry.”

“That is not very specific.”  
  
“I don’t need it to be specific.”   
  
Killian glances at her over his shoulder, a wry look on his face and the prickle of something at the base of Emma’s skull kind of feels like sticking her hand into a fire. It’s not uncomfortable, just little brushes of warmth and familiarity, but she’s a little worried about getting burned by the whole, entire thing. 

She wishes she’d stop thinking in metaphor. 

“Isn’t baking some kind of exact science?” Killian asks. “I always thought you had to follow a baking recipe to the letter.”  
  
“Whoever told you that was a great, big, enormous liar.”   
  
“Wow, that is just...a sweeping judgment.”   
  
Emma shrugs. “It’s true. Baking is, well, at least for me, it’s instinctual. God, did that sound as weird out loud as I think it did?”   
  
“It didn’t.” He has to bump the refrigerator door closed with his hip, which probably shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “But it did sound as if you’re baking with a little bit more than feeling, love. So, let’s have it. Why’d you open the pie place?”   
  
Emma considers her answer for a moment – the idea of lying about it particularly appealing, but then he’s dumping ten sticks of butter onto her counter and there’s a jug of buttermilk pinned to his side with his blunted arm and anything except the absolute truth seems entirely unfair. 

To both of them. 

“It always felt like home,” Emma says. “And I’m...well, at the risk of sounding like a melodramatic idiot, this is something I’m really good at.”  
  
“That’s not melodramatic. It’s not entirely true, but it’s not melodramatic.”   
  
“You don’t know enough about me to know it’s not true.”   
  
Killian shakes his head, the smile on his face making it very difficult to come up with all those reasons Emma was so certain of a few seconds before. “I think I still know you pretty well. And I know you’re far too hard on yourself. It’s not necessary. Although,” he adds, grabbing a stick of butter and a knife, “you want these chopped?”   
  
“Yes, into, like...just, you know follow the lines on the wrapper? Was that your follow-up question?”   
  
“No, no, I just figured I should continue to pull my weight around here.”   
  
“It’s been kind of a ridiculous few days, I think you could get a pass.”   
  
Another head shake. This one is a little more tired and a little more anxious and several of Emma’s internal organs lurch at the sight. “I’d be very interested in knowing every single about you from the last twenty years.”   
  
She giggles. An honest to God, real life giggle. It feels like it bubbles straight out of her soul and explodes into rainbows and those little animated hearts that showed up on the Saturday morning cartoons they used to watch when they were kids, the ones that always showed how _in love_ a character was. 

Damn, Emma hates when Ruby is right. 

“What do you want to know?” Emma asks, and Killian beams. While cutting up butter. 

They’re sitting on the floor of the kitchen twenty minutes later, pie in the oven and a bowl of berries in between them – _We’re getting real berries, Swan, if you’re going to bake the pie, the least you can do is eat it too_ – and Emma knows her teeth are stained blue. It doesn’t seem to be bothering Killian, who doesn’t seem to have an end to his list of questions. 

“Ok, what about prom?”  
  
“What about it?”   
  
“Did you go?”   
  
“And you dare to suggest you know me.”   
  
He rolls his head onto his shoulder, unimpressed. “I don’t need to rehash old points of the conversation, Swan. An answer, please and thank you.”   
  
“No,” Emma shakes her head. “I was...somewhere at that point, shit, when are you supposed to go to prom?”   
  
“I don’t know, I didn’t go.”   
  
“You didn’t go?”   
  
“Do you know me? It was far too middle America. I had no use for corsages or tuxedos or spending all that money on a limo to just stand awkwardly on a dance floor. Plus, you know, it’d probably help to have some friends who would want to go. Or a girl.”   
  
He mumbles the last few words, refusing to meet Emma’s gaze and she hates how stunned she is. She’s incredibly stunned. “God, what a bunch of idiots.”   
  
“Who? Me and you?”   
  
“No, well, yes, but mostly the teenage population of Storybrooke whenever you’re technically supposed to go to prom. Probably like sixteen, right? They’re the idiots. I bet you’d be a great dancer anyway.”   
  
Killian chuckles, soft and still a little nervous, which makes Emma’s organs react again, but she’s also pretty positive she can feel _something_ in the admittedly minimal amount of space between them and it might be magic. 

She kind of hopes it’s magic. 

It feels a lot like what she thinks magic would feel like. 

“That’s an awful lot of confidence you’re throwing my direction, Swan.”  
  
“I’m not throwing it,” Emma argues. “I’m placing it. Lightly. At your feet. Which I’m sure are incredibly rhythmic.”   
  
“I’d at least be able to ask Shakespeare for some lessons. I’m sure he’s got tips.”   
  
Emma hums, not entirely in agreement, but mostly in contentment. “When’d you get your first leather jacket?”   
  
“I was fourteen.”   
  
“Wow, a bad boy from a very young age.”   
“Nah, a wanna-be. Mostly because I thought it’d make me look cool and, well...I remembered Liam having one when he was younger.”   
  
Emma doesn’t gasp. She’s proud of herself for that. She does, however, lick her lips and that might be worse because Killian notices and that means Killian is looking at her lips. It suddenly feels impossibly warm in her kitchen. 

“That must have been before I got to Storybrooke,” Emma murmurs, and Killian nods. 

“Yeah, I think it must have been. Ok. What about…movie...snack?”  
  
“Popcorn. With melted malt balls on top.”   
  
Killian makes a scandalized noise, complete with tongue and that only means Emma is also staring at her lips. Maybe they are the idiots of this story. “That is disgusting,” he proclaims. “How do you make that?”   
  
“Oh, it’s a very refined recipe. Lots of boiling and melting and—” She can’t help but laugh when he gapes at her, some of the tension twisting in between her shoulders loosening at the color of his eyes. “C’mon. I use a microwave. It’s the least complex thing I make.”

“That still sounds disgusting. It can’t be very healthy.”  
  
“Strangely enough I’m not thinking about my blood pressure when I’m watching movies.”   
  
“Favorite?”   
  
“Hmmmm?”   
  
“Your favorite movie,” Killian says, pausing between every word as if Emma is under oath and the fate of several different galaxies rests on her answer. They’re not actually dealing with aliens. “When we were kids it was—”   
  
“—Still is. That, uh...that hasn’t changed.”

He’s silent for a moment, another far too charged moment with irregular temperatures and the growing scent of a pie with way more berries than the recipe called for hanging in the air. And then he’s moving, reaching up towards the counter and knocking the roll of saran wrap on the floor, plastic spilling at his feet. 

“Ah, damn,” Killian sighs. “That’s not nearly as romantic as I was hoping it would be.”  
  
Emma clicks her tongue. “I think it went ok.”   
  
“Something about kissing, right? At the end? Most passionate, most pure...this one left them all behind. That’s how it goes?”   
  
“Yeah,” she breathes, yanking off a far-too-long sheet of saran wrap. “Is this a kissing book?”   
  
“I’d very much like it to be.”

Emma giggles again – straight into the plastic and against his mouth and she sees him shift, doing his best to keep any other limbs away from her and how much she wants to touch his goddamn hair. They stay in each other's space for a moment, quick kisses that turn back into longer ones that turn into quick and bruising and a slew of other adjectives that probably look ridiculous to anything else. 

It feels a little life-changing to Emma. 

Killian is the first one to make a noise that time, a victory of the make-out variety for Emma and her distinct lack of make-out experience. He opens his mouth against her, like he wants to tug on her lower lip or do something that involves the tongue that’s been distracting her all day, and both of those are impossible. Emma appreciates the effort. 

“I stole gloves from Ruby’s apartment,” Killian mumbles through the plastic against her chin, and Emma startles at that. 

“Is that code?”  
  
“We should come up with a code. I bet that’d infuriate Ruby.”   
  
“You’ve known Ruby for point two seconds and you’re already trying to infuriate her?”   
  
“Don’t forget stealing from her. That’s really the important part.”   
  
“Why’d you steal glove?” Emma asks, still a little breathless and a little giggly and a little _something_ after all those kisses. And she kind of knows the answer. 

Killian kisses her through the crumpled-up plastic again. “To hold your hand.”

* * *

“Emma. Emma, are you there?”  
  
Emma blinks blearily, trying to take in her surroundings and there isn’t anything there. She’s standing on nothing, nothing but darkness around her and a distinct lack of anything. The voice yells her name again. 

“What the hell…” Emma starts, stumbling backwards when she blinks and there are two people standing in front of her. 

The woman is shorter than the man, dark hair in a pixie cut and a soft look to her eyes that feels like it could wrap around Emma and protect her for the rest of forever and, at the same time, cut down anyone who dared to threaten that. The man isn’t much taller than Killian, hair almost sandy in color and a set of his jaw that feels far too familiar. 

Emma curses. It’s distinctly piratical. 

The woman’s eyebrows leap. “Oh,” she mutters, but the man is laughing and he sounds kind of proud. “Well, that was...I mean, that’s fair.”

“What is going on?” Emma demands. 

“You have to listen to us, Emma. This is important and there isn’t much time. But...things are happening now that have been destined to happen since, well, the dawn of time—”  
  
“—What?”  
  
“Don’t interrupt,” the man chides. He’s smiling at Emma. And it all feels like déjà vu and answers to questions Emma’s never wanted to ask for fear of what she’ll find out. She bites her tongue. 

“It’s going to get difficult, sweetheart,” the woman continues. “But it won’t always be like that. You won’t always be like that. And, I promise, he’ll understand.”  
  
Emma blinks. “Who? Who will understand, what?”

“It’s going to be worth it, Emma. No matter what you think. Love is always worth it.”

Emma opens her mouth to ask _what the hell are you talking about_ again, but she takes a breath and everything shimmers and her phone is ringing. 

“You’ve got to answer that, love,” Killian mumbles, back on the living room floor with a glove on his right hand and fingers brushing Emma’s forearm. 

Emma shakes her head, trying to get rid of metaphorical and possible literal cobwebs and she’s already having a difficult time remembering what she just saw. She grabs her phone off the coffee table, nearly hitting her head in the process and Ruby is already talking as soon as Emma swipes her thumb across the screen. 

“Em,” she says sharply. “You’ve got to get down here. They found another body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where we kind of deviate from the Pushing Daisies path. Get ready for some magic, is what I'm saying. Also, these chapters are so long. Thanks for reading 'em, it's real nice. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down where I am in mourning over the New York Rangers.


	5. Chapter 5

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, nine hours and sixteen minutes old when she decides she may actually be going crazy. 

It would explain away a whole host of her problems. 

Ruby is flirting, genuinely and legitimately flirting, and Emma has a few sinking suspicions about the origins of the shirt Killian is wearing, but she’s also a little distracted by whatever the tips of Killian’s ears are doing because it seems he can dish the flirty banter out, but he absolutely, positively cannot witness it. 

Or however the saying is supposed to go. 

And he won’t stop staring at Emma. Like he knows something she doesn’t. 

It’s unnerving. 

“If you stare at me any harder, you’re going to turn me to stone,” Emma mumbles, letting her head drop back and that is a mistake. She can’t remember ever having a concussion, but the wall behind her feels impossibly hard. 

That may just be the situation. Ruby laughs again, leaning over the edge of Victor’s desk until the tips of her hair skim over papers and the not-so-good doctor looks incredibly overwhelmed. Emma understands the feeling. 

She bites her tongue to stop herself from making some kind of absolutely absurd noise because Killian’s eyes widen slightly at the scene in front of them and the longer she tries to remember the dream, the harder it’s becoming to separate reality from fiction and she can’t actually google psychiatric institutions. 

That would probably alert some kind of government agency. 

“If what we’ve been told is true, I’d imagine that’s entirely possible,” Killian says. He doesn’t take a step towards her, but Emma knows he wants to and she swears she can feel him next to her. 

Maybe there are psychiatric institutions listed in the yellow pages. 

She’s not even sure there are yellow pages anymore. The whole thing sounds incredibly antiquated, even in her head. 

Ruby makes a ridiculous noise when she knocks a pile of papers off Victor’s desk. His answering _whatever_ makes Emma want to gag. 

“And,” Killian adds, ducking his head so Emma can’t avoid his gaze. “I know you’re thinking something, love. So let’s have at it. At least it’ll distract us from whatever is going on over there.”  
  
“This is normal.”   
  
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

She scoffs, digging the toe of her shoe into the tile underneath her. “What’s the matter, Jones? Not into public displays of affection?”  
  
“How does the man not realize what’s going on? It’s honestly almost too much, don’t you think?”

Emma shrugs and maybe it’s the wall that’s moving because it seems to be pushing even harder against the jut of her ponytail. She can barely remember anything about the dream now, just wisps of memories and moments and it was so, incredibly dark. 

She hasn’t been able to get the goosebumps off her arms since they got into her car. 

“Maybe,” Emma says. “But I don’t think he really cares. And, you know, it works. Gets us to the body and—”

She cuts herself off, wincing as soon as the word _body_ falls out of her mouth. Killian tilts his head, the ends of his lips quirking up. 

“You’re doing another admirable job of avoiding my question. Seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Sweeping judgment,” Emma grumbles. She’s going to dislocate her toe if she presses her shoe any harder into the floor. 

Killian shakes his head. He’s bent his knees at some point which, if Ruby and Victor weren’t far too preoccupied flirting with, maybe, some purpose, would probably lead to both of them making fun, but it also makes Emma tug her lips back behind her teeth and breathe a bit sharply through her nose and it is not fair how good he is at this. 

Still. 

Maybe that was part of the dream. 

Something about understanding. 

She kind of remembers the woman’s face. Her eyes looked...not quite sad, but a little disappointed and a little wanting and that’s the feeling Emma hasn’t been able to shake, a tug in the pit of her stomach and a pull in the center of her soul and she’s never dreaded a trip to the morgue more. 

God, what a weird sentence. 

“Not sweeping,” Killian amends. “Accurate. And obvious. Do you think it’s possible?”  
  
Emma blinks. “Do I think what is possible?”   
  
“You’re not actually going to make me say it, are you?”   
  
“I think I may kind of need you to say it.”

It’s an admission Emma doesn’t need to make, but she feels as if she’s drifting between dream and reality and she swears she’s seen those people before. She knows she knows them, she just can’t figure out how. Or why they showed up in her subconscious. 

Emma’s eyes flit up when Killian doesn’t respond immediately and she’s not sure if she’s glad or frustrated that she does – because she can see the muscles in his throat move when he swallows, the clench of his jaw probably doing damage to several different parts of his mouth. His lips move again, like he isn’t sure if smiling is acceptable in an emotionally charged moment in the middle of a goddamn morgue, but it only takes half a second for him to decide and Emma is thankful for the wall behind her. 

“Do you think it’s possible that I was inadvertently working for some kind of magical darkness because that same magical darkness thinks I am…”  
  
“Magical?” Emma suggests, and Killian’s answering noise is strangled at best. “I have no idea. I’ve never...it’s not like I’ve met a lot of other people who can wake the dead and ask them who murdered them.”   
  
“Have you ever woken anyone who wasn’t murdered?”

Emma tenses. She knows she tenses. Killian knows she tenses. Ruby is in the middle of something absolutely ridiculous and she probably knows Emma tenses. 

She’s the world’s worst liar and even more terrible at trying to deflect the conversation, but it suddenly seems like she’s balancing on that tight rope again and her head shake makes her entire neck ache. 

“Nope,” she says, far too quickly to be anything except the blatantly obvious lie it is. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “Nope?”  
  
“Nope. I...well, why would I do that? I’m not trying to play God.”   
  
“I’m not suggesting that.”   
  
“Then what are you suggesting, exactly?”   
  
He lets out a low, vaguely sardonic chuckle and Emma figures that’s fair. His hand twists behind him, tugging on hair and pressing the pads of his fingers against the skin just behind his ear. There’s a hint of color on his cheeks. 

That’s disconcerting too. 

Emma can barely hear him over the buzzing in between her ears. 

“I have no idea at all,” Killian admits softly. “But well...I don’t know. I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about or suggesting or even theorizing, but I’m at least ninety-six percent positive I can hear you, Swan. Or maybe feel you. God, shit, that sounds ridiculous.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound ridiculous.”   
  
“You’re being generous, love.”

Emma makes a contradictory noise, ignoring the fluttering of her pulse. “I’m not,” she promises. “I...you have no idea what you were trying to collect though? For this...darkness? Honestly, that almost sounds more ridiculous than you being able to feel me.”  
  
“That kind of sounds like a line.”   
  
“It might be.”   
  
Killian smiles, head falling forward when he exhales and Emma’s palms are never going to recover from the nails she keeps digging into her skin. “We are exponentially better at flirting than Lucas is.”   
  
“Don’t tell her that, she’ll get offended.”

Emma briefly wonders if magic _is_ possible, based solely on the force of Killian’s expression when he looks at her. It’s not immediate, which almost makes it worse or, probably, better, but Emma’s clearly lost control of the English language, so she’s not going to be specific about which adjective she uses. 

He tilts his head up slowly, like he’s trying to savor the moment and she needs magic to be real and fix this because not reaching out and brushing her fingers over the curve of his jaw is growing more and more difficult. 

“What are you thinking about, Swan?” he asks, voice low but with a hint of something that sends a shiver down Emma’s spine and makes her dig her heels into her shoes and maybe they should have gone to prom together because they appear to be very good at dancing around the subject. At least Emma is. 

“Way too much to be even remotely healthy.”  
  
“Can you think so much that it would be a detriment to your health?”   
  
“You’re the one who’s read encyclopedias. I’m surprised you’re not a doctor at this point.”   
  
“Not a doctor,” Killian says, smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. Ruby is taking her sweet time getting them to see this body. 

Emma does not want to see this body. 

“That wasn’t a contradiction to the encyclopedias,” Emma points out. “And I’m surprised you can’t feel my neurons like...short-circuiting or something at this point.”  
  
“You’re also not a robot, Swan.”

“Look who’s being generous now.”  
  
His eyes widen slightly before raking across her, drifting from her face to her arms and the bend of her elbows, tracing back across her hips and the bend in her right knee. Emma doesn’t mean to hold her breath, but she’s still on that metaphorical tight rope and she kind of feels like she’s being taken stock of. It’s not altogether unpleasant. 

Every single inch of her feels like it’s buzzing, a quiet energy under her skin and a hum of something that might actually be power or magic and Emma can’t remember the last time she went to the doctor. 

She assumes a doctor would be able to refer her to an appropriate psychiatric facility. 

Killian’s head shifts again, hair dangerously close to his brows, but she can still make out his eyes perfectly and--

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, Swan.”  
  
There’s a hint of a plea to his words and Emma realizes, rather suddenly, he’s been doing a very good job of taking this in stride, but it may be a bit of an act and a possible show of magic and she inhales quickly, like that will give her an extra boost of confidence. 

“I’ve never met anyone else like me,” she says. Her voice shakes. That’s disappointing. “Ever. There’s...it’s not like we have club meetings or matching lettermans jackets or anything like that. There is just me and what I can do and shouldn’t be able to do and—”  
  
“—Why don’t you think you should be able to do it?”   
  
“What?”   
  
“What makes you think it’s inherently wrong, Swan?” Killian asks. 

Emma gapes at him, stunned that he could think it was anything except that, but she knows Ruby also kind of thinks that and she’s incredibly good at self loathing. It’s probably the trail of bodies in her wake and the lingering sense that she’s forgetting something important about that dream. Killian’s expression doesn’t shift though, steady and certain and the confidence that’s practically pulsating in the air around him has an almost legitimate taste. 

Like berries or something. 

She’s honestly gone insane. 

“It’s…” Emma starts, waving her hands in the air when she can’t come up with the right words to prove what an absolutely, terrible, no good, very bad person she is. “It’s unnatural. This is—”

“—Magic?”

“That’s crazy.”  
  
“Swan, you touched me and I wasn’t dead anymore. I think that’s fairly good proof that there’s some kind of magical something happening here. And it doesn’t make it a bad thing.”   
  
“So long as no one knows about it.”   
  
“Explain that.”   
  
“I’ve been...Graham wasn’t wrong before, you know. I don’t really...talk to, well, anyone. I mean I talk to Ruby and some dead people and the people who buy my pies, but it’s not like I’ve got a thriving social life or anything. And I can’t.”   
  
“Why?” Killian presses, and there isn’t any anger there, just genuine curiosity and concern. Emma’s pulse is going to fly out of her body. 

At least there is an actual doctor nearby. 

“Because I left Storybrooke when I was a kid, alone and absolutely terrified and...I knew I could do this...whatever it is. Magic or a genetic mistake or—”  
  
“—You’re not a mistake, Swan.”   
  
“It’s nice that you think that.”   
  
“Emma,” Killian snaps, and she’s dimly aware of Ruby’s sound of frustration when they get loud enough to distract Victor from whatever part of the flirting plan she’s currently executing. He doesn’t take a step forward, there’s not enough room, but he rocks forward slightly and Emma’s breath hitches, stinging her nose and making her lungs burn and she’s totally unprepared for the look on his face. 

He’s determined and not, a strange combination that’s also a little soft and maybe Emma should start reading the dictionary so she can come up with better words in situations like this. 

Situations that end with conversations in her head. 

“I don’t think that,” Killian continues. “I know that. Unequivocally. You didn’t...whatever reason this happened to you, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”  
  
Emma shakes her head out of habit, pleasantly surprised and slightly charmed by the look of exasperation on Killian’s face. “I shouldn’t be able to do this,” she whispers. “It’s not right. It’s not safe. I mean...if you move the wrong way or—”  
  
“—That’s not going to happen.”   
  
“You can’t know that!”   
  
Ruby groans again, throwing them both a glare over her shoulder before redirecting her attention back to Victor. This is taking forever. 

Emma hopes that isn’t a sign. 

“Nothing is going to happen to me, Swan,” Killian says, another promise he can’t make, but one Emma also kind of needs and maybe covets and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get bluer when he looks at her. “But you’re deflecting quite a bit again, love. What are you worried about?”  
  
“Would you like an itemized list?”   
  
“I wouldn’t refuse it. You’ve been jaw-clenching since you answered the phone this morning.”   
  
Emma sighs, letting her tongue trace over her teeth. “When I was a kid, I was terrified of what would happen if someone could find out what I could do. That they’d...take me or use me and no matter how much you try and cover it up by flirting with me, we both know this is something I shouldn’t be able to do. It’s not normal.”   
  
“That doesn’t make it wrong.”   
  
“It doesn’t make it right either.”   
  
“You are impossibly stubborn.”   
  
“Yeah,” Emma mutters. “But that’s the point. I haven’t really...I’m very good at pushing away with both hands so no one will know what I can do.”   
  
“You can’t actually push me away, you know,” Killian says. It’s more out of place flirting. Emma’s pulse does not care. 

“That’s stupid.”  
  
“That’s what you’re capable of doing.”   
  
Emma groans, less frustration than...something else. “I’m kind of freaking out,” she admits, wholly unfair all things considered. Killian’s smile looks a hint sadder. “And I...well, Cora said the Darkness was looking for people like us, right?” 

“I’ve never undeaded the dead, Swan.”  
  
“I figured that’d be part of the reintroduction, honestly. Hey, Emma, long time no see, I also can touch people back to life.”   
  
He chuckles, fingers fluttering at his side like he’s trying to stop himself from touching her. “I wouldn’t have called you Emma,” Killian mutters. “Save that for special occasions and exercises in self confidence.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” 

“Your self confidence or the magic?”

“Throw a dart,” she quips. “But mostly the magic.”  
  
“Like I said, I have no idea. But I knew something was wrong as soon as the goons got on deck and there had to be some reason they wanted that water moved. I doubt the Darkness is all that concerned with proper hydration.”

“You’re absolutely hysterical.”  
  
“Got you to smile though,” Killian points out, waving a finger through the air and it’s dangerously close to her cheek. 

“Cora seemed very adamant.”  
  
“Well, we all know that Cora wouldn’t lie.”

She might laugh, but the sound feels like it rattles around her throat, scraping against the side and leaving behind marks that will linger for days or weeks or the rest of her goddamn life. Emma’s eyes fall shut, breathing only slightly erratic, which really is a step in the right direction.

“I used to have dreams,” she says, another sudden admission she hadn’t planned on making until the words are flying straight out of her. “When I was a kid and there were new houses and cold houses and I’d never been very good at sleeping, but it got worse and worse the older I got. I used to fall into these kinds of fits and they changed a lot, different locations and faces that weren’t ever really specific, but it always ended the same.”  
  
She opens her eyes, vision blurred slightly. She can still see the flecks of _something_ in Killian’s eyes. It might be magic. 

Emma still wants it to be magic. 

If only to prove she isn’t as alone as she’s always felt. 

“How did it end?” Killian asks, another rock forward that she should object to. She doesn’t. 

“Badly.”  
  
She doesn’t say anything else, knows she doesn’t really have to when Killian’s tongue flashes between his lips. He’s not close enough for Emma to actually feel his exhale. Her brain doesn’t care. It latches on to the want and the need and the taste of blood lingers in the back of her mouth when she chews on her tongue again. 

“Is that what happened last night?”  
  
Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “What?”   
  
“Is that what happened last night?” Killian repeats. “A dream that ended badly?”   
  
“How do you know that?”   
  
“That’s not an answer, Swan.”

She huffs out a breath of oxygen her lungs could desperately use, running a ragged hand over her face. “I can’t really remember,” Emma mumbles. “It wasn’t the same as those ones. It was...it was dark and I was alone for awhile, but then I wasn’t. There were people there. A man and a woman and they said…” She grits her teeth, trying to remember details that are fading as quickly as she can try and hold onto them. “They said it was going to be worth it.”  
  
“What was going to be worth it?”   
  
“Your guess is as good as mine.”   
  
Killian laughs again, low and almost unsurprised because of course there’s another mystery. “Figures. You weren’t by yourself though.”   
  
Emma considers that for a moment – trying to remember the feeling of the dream and the faces that were almost familiar in a way that made it seem as if they’d been there since the very beginning. Her smile feels almost natural. “No, I wasn’t.” 

She shakes her arms, doing her best to get rid of the sudden surplus of excess energy that appears to be lingering in the tips of her fingers. “And I don’t think Cora would lie either,” Emma adds, avoiding Killian’s gaze. 

It doesn’t matter. She can feel his eyes widen and she wrings her hands together just to prove that she hasn’t, in fact, turned to stone. 

“Emma.”  
  
“Oh, c’mon.”   
  
He rolls his eyes when she does, finally, meet his eyes. It’s a bit of normal in the crazy and Emma’s thankful for it, even when they’re discussing something another human has already referred to as the Darkness. 

“They called him master,” Killian says. “That’s...he must have been looking for something.”  
  
“Something magical.”   
  
“But the water is gone. I saw it crash before, well…before everything went to shit.”   
  
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Emma mumbles, drawing more laughter and another smile and that’s comforting too. She lets her head drop back again, pulse almost evening out and breathing coming almost normally – until Killian runs his hand through his hair and rocks back on his feet and—

“You know, I used to wonder about you,” he says, rushing over the words as if they’re somehow embarrassing. “Not, well, not in a stalkery, all the time kind of way. But in a you were gone and eventually I realized you weren’t coming back and I wondered what you looked like sometimes kind of way.”  
  
“What I looked like?”

“Yeah, in retrospect that sounds a little stalkery too, doesn’t it?”  
  
Emma twists a strand of hair around her finger, chewing lightly on her lower lip. “Sounds a little flirty, honestly.”   
  
“Ah, that’s bitter.”   
  
“How’d it play out for you?” Killian hums in confusion, a furrow to his brows that is equal parts attractive and a little overwhelming, as if one look can alter the entire state of gravity around Emma. She presses her palms flat against the wall, not really much better than digging her nails into her skin because whatever this wall is made out of is kind of gritty and horrible, but Killian’s ears have gone scarlet and the tip of his tongue is pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Play out,” Emma repeats. “As far as looks go.”   
  
He might genuinely growl at her. 

Whatever the sound is, it lingers in the air around them until Emma is certain it’s crackling with electricity and want and a slew of other adjectives that make her heart race and the possible magic she’s definitely in possession of soar. 

Killian’s eyes darken, crowding into her space and pressing his hand above her head. “That’s a loaded question. And I’m a little disappointed it’s not more obvious.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just trying to get some more confirmation.”   
  
She can see his shoulders shift, a twist of skin and muscles and a t-shirt that’s half a size too small. They really are incredibly good at flirting with each other. 

Emma licks her lips before she considers the repercussions of it, whatever noise that rumbles in the back of Killian’s throat making her feel as if she’s floating and a little drunk and both of those things would be a better explanation than magic. 

It’s definitely magic. 

She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows and she wants to ignore the idea of the Darkness for the rest of her life. 

“Better,” Killian says, low and gruff and Emma swears the word slinks into her bloodstream. It wraps around her heart and several other internal organs that would probably sound disgusting if she were to ever say any of this out loud, drifting down her limbs and taking up residence at major pulse points, a steady rhythm that helps ground her when the buzzing in her brain roars to life. 

Emma doesn’t scoff, it’s more of an exhale, but still a little disbelieving and a little needy and—

“Yeah, you too,” she breathes. 

And, honestly, in a conversation about magic and death and dreams that end with Emma serving as the subject of several vaguely horrible science experiments, telling a guy she’s definitely started referring to as her boyfriend in her head that she’s attracted to him shouldn’t be so surprising. But Killian’s face hasn’t appeared to get that memo.

His eyebrows jump into his hairline, a muscle in his temple fluttering at a rate that can’t be medically accurate. He doesn’t move his right hand, but his lips press together tightly and Emma’s eyes dart towards his left arm when he tries to twist it behind his back. 

His eyelashes are impossibly long, fluttering when he closes his eyes and his shoulders move again, as if he’s trying to readjust the weight that’s landed there. 

“Hey,” Emma says, reaching out against her better judgment to tug on the front of his shirt. “That’s...do you want to talk about it?”  
  
“No.”   
  
“Killian.”   
  
“What is there to talk about, Swan? It was there when I left home and it was there when I got on the boat and it’s very clearly not here now, so somewhere between living and dying and living again, someone decided I didn’t need to have my left hand anymore.”   
  
“I think you want to talk about it.”   
  
He glares, but she’s almost confident in her ability to read him too and if they’re going to share magic, or whatever, Emma figures it’s part of her biological right. “The most stubborn person alive, you know that?”   
  
“No,” Emma argues. “You’re alive too. That, at least, makes us even.”

“God, it’s not fair that you can still do that.”  
  
“Yeah, tell me about it.”   
  
Killian grins, less...everything except something Emma can’t possibly begin to think about in a morgue. “Cora said she didn’t think they’d take it,” he whispers. “As in there’s a reason they did take it. And I’m pretty positive the they in this scenario are the goons.”   
  
“Seems to be a trend.”   
  
“Yeah, it does. A frustrating one that I can’t wrap my head around. Have you ever heard of a fairy tale where the villains steal someone’s hand?”   
  
“Fairy tale,” Emma echoes skeptically, and Killian’s teeth dig into his lip. She’s slightly optimistic that it’s so he won’t be tempted to kiss her. 

“Are you not my knight in shining armor, Swan?”

“That’s almost laying it on too thick, don’t you think?”  
  
Killian mutters a quick disagreement, bringing his left arm back to his side. “I think it’s some very twisted trick of the universe that I’d spent more time than appropriate during my teenage years wondering if your hair was still able to reflect sunlight only to die before finding you again and then, upon not being dead, being unable to touch you as much as I very desperately want to.”   
  
“Desperately?”   
  
Emma’s voice cracks on the word, and she knows she should stop repeating everything he says, but she’s having a difficult time breathing and she assumes he won’t fault her lack of sentence structure. Ruby’s laugh has taken on a decidedly victorious tone, Victor grumbling something that sounds like the tell-tale signs of acquiesce. 

They’re running out of time. 

“Desperately,” Killian repeats. “And, as if that weren’t enough, if we do somehow figure out a way to magic ourselves out of this mess, figure out who killed me, fight off some mythical Darkness and make sure you get to REM sleep every night, I still won’t be able to hold onto you with both of my hands.”

Emma doesn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until all the oxygen rushes out of her lungs in one great, big enormous huff. She’s not crying, so that feels like a victory, but Killian’s suddenly the one who can’t hold her gaze and that doesn’t compute at all. 

She shuffles her weight between her feet, trying to put some incredibly undesirable space between them so she can hold her hand out expectantly. 

“Is that code?”  
  
“We didn’t come up with the code yet,” Emma points out, and it’s enough to work a slightly tremulous smile out of him. She’ll take her victories where she can get them at this point. “And I know there are gloves in your back pocket. Hand ‘em over.”   
  
“Swan, what…”   
  
“Don’t argue with me, Jones. A pirate is supposed to share his booty with his crew or something, right? I have no idea how pirate rules work.”   
  
“I don’t think pirates had many rules, love, that’s why they were pirates.”   
  
“You are grasping at straws and distracting me from my point. Gloves, now and now.”   
  
He makes a disbelieving noise, but doesn’t argue anymore, yanking the gloves out of his pocket and dropping them in her upturned palm. It takes some finangling on Emma’s part to make sure she doesn’t inadvertently elbow him in the ribs or something more catastrophic, but she keeps her grunting to a minimum as she tugs the fabric over her fingers.   
  
And it’s obvious he realizes what she’s about to do before she does it. 

His eyes go wide and his jaw goes slack and he might mumble her name, a quiet _Emma_ that sounds half like a plea and half like another wholly impossible promise, but none of that is quite as gravity-altering as whatever happens to every single inch of Killian’s face as soon as she wraps her glove-covered finger around the end of his left arm. 

Emma doesn’t say anything – isn’t entirely certain she’s capable of it and, really, she’d rather not embarrass herself by saying something idiotic, like telling him she may honestly be in love with him again or still or whatever – so she just lets her fingers drift over skin she’s not actually touching, tracing over scars that are far cleaner than she expected them to be. 

That gives her pause, but she refuses to linger on it when she knows they’re already on borrowed time. The clack of Ruby’s heels is getting closer. 

And Killian, for his part, looks a little stunned. His eyes don’t ever leave Emma, bouncing from her fingers back to her face and drifting towards her mouth and maybe they should start carrying saran wrap with them at all times. 

That seems a little weird. 

“Emma,” he whispers, and when they get out of this, when there are no more dead bodies and no more threats and she’s told him the absolute truth about absolutely everything, she’s going to kiss every single inch of skin she can find. She’s going to linger on these few inches, an emotional brand that feels as heavy-handed as any of the decidedly sentimental thoughts she’s considered in the last few days, but she’s going to do it anyway, until he believes it’s ok and worth it and—

“Did you say you wondered if my hair could reflect sunlight?” Emma asks. 

Whatever noise he makes will probably play on loop in Emma’s memories for the rest of her life and very likely into several different afterlifes. It warms her from the inside out, another rush of power and a hint of guilt she’s been ignoring because she’s definitely keeping big, important facts from him and Killian is already nodding. 

“I did when I was a kid. Especially in the summer. We’d be outside all the time and, God, I swore it was, like, phosphorescent or something.”  
  
“That’s a very big word for a nine year old.”   
  
“I didn’t come up with that one until I was ten.”   
  
“Ah, well, that’s ok.”   
  
He nods, half a wink and it’s not very good, but it’s still stupidly charming. “Like it was it’s own power source,” Killian adds, half to himself as his fingers drift through the air just above Emma’s head. “It never made any sense.”   
  
“Yeah, join the club.”   
  
“I think I probably could have remembered every single strand when I was a kid. And, fuck, I know I’m not helping my stalking case, but—”  
  
“—No, no,” Emma interrupts, far too quickly. “That’s...I mean, it’s kind of ok.”   
  
“Good news for me. But it was like it was imprinted in my brain, even after you left. Years and summers and how ridiculous it was trying to race myself down that stupid hill.”   
  
“You went back to the hill?”   
  
“My uncles thought it was a coping mechanism, and it was at first, but then it was so I wouldn’t forget too. I wanted to hate you for a while, Swan. That you left and never came back and—”   
  
“—Not all of that was my fault.”   
  
“I know it wasn’t, love, but tell that to a decidedly friendless, leather jacket sporting fourteen year old and you’ll find I wasn’t very rational at that point. I wanted to hate you, more than I’d wanted just about anything at that point.”   
  
“Did you?”   
  
“No,” Killian answers immediately. “I kept going back to the hill and the memories always seemed to slam into me and I couldn't hate you if I tried. So I stopped. I remembered everything and every time I went back there I always seemed to remember the exact way the sun reflected off your hair.”   
  
She opens her mouth. Only to close it again. And does that four more times. Killian’s smile turns a little nervous, but that may be because Emma hasn’t let go of his arm. 

She’s got no intention of letting go of his arm. 

Or him. 

God. 

“That’s decidedly romantic for an angst-ridden teenager,” she says, which is really the last thing she expects to say, but is also kind of par for the course and Killian grabs one of her hands so he can press a kiss to the bend in her knuckles. 

“Yeah, it is.”  
  
Ruby groans, the scrape of Victor’s chair sounding impossibly loud when he gets up, muttering an excuse about _taking an early lunch_ lingering behind him. 

“Are you guys done?” Ruby asks. She’s already tapping her heel. “Because we are on a very tight schedule here.”  
  
“The guy isn’t going anywhere,” Killian reasons. 

“Yeah, about that guy. I’ve got some facts.”  
  
Emma blinks, and lets Killian lace his fingers through hers. “What kind of facts?”   
  
“These kind of facts,” Ruby says, brandishing a questionably large file in front of her. “The kind that show that Charles Thatch has spent the better part of the last ten years in and out of several different prisons in a variety of states. He never seems to have much in the way of employment history, but he’s certainly got the means to bounce around the country quite a bit.”   
  
“Meaning?”   
  
“Meaning, our Mr. Thatch, who, incidentally, was found in the woods on the edge of the Storybrooke city line—”  
  
“—Town line.”   
  
“I’m going to kill you.”   
  
“Let’s avoid that, please,” Emma mumbles, trying to pull her arm out of Killian’s grasp so she can dramatically cross them over her chest. He tightens his hold. 

Ruby scowls. “Yeah, that was kind of shitty, right?”  
  
“Just a little. Go back to lording facts so you feel like you’re in control of the situation.”

Ruby flips her off that time. “Mr. Teach bounced around everywhere. Doing odds and ends and things that don’t make any sense at all, but, and this is the most important part, in the last two months he applied for, and received, an expedited passport.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
“Oh I get it,” Killian mumbles, and Emma isn’t sure if he means to squeeze her hand that hard. It’s almost worse if he doesn’t. 

  
“Honestly were you a PI in another life?” Ruby demands. “Or a cop? Getting upstaged like this is not fun for me at all. 

“As far as I know only one life. If we start dealing with regenerations or something too, I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle that.”  
  
“Regner-whats?”   
  
“Like Doctor Who,” Emma supplies. “His brother was a giant nerd.”

The casual mention of Liam catches her by surprise, eyes widening to a size that Ruby absolutely notices and Killian’s brows pull low in confusion. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it too, Swan. You were the one who wanted to build a TARDIS that one time.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it didn’t work did it?”   
  
“We didn’t know about the magic yet.”   
  
“Can we focus, please?” Ruby shouts, jumping for emphasis and they are being kind of unfair to her. “Because as Jones said, but didn’t actually explain, the passport thing is important. It means that Mr. Teach was able to leave the country with relative ease in the last two months, which could potentially include a little jaunt into the Atlantic ocean and—”   
  
“—Oh shit,” Emma mumbles. 

  
“Exactly. So, shall we touch him and ask him if he’s got TSA pre-screening?”  
  
“I don’t think they let felons do that,” Killian shrugs, ignoring whatever strangled noise Ruby makes and his hand doesn’t leave Emma’s when he directs her towards the nearest door. 

She’s never really enjoyed trips to the morgue. 

She assumes no one really does, except possibly Victor, but he’s a little weird and she understands that trips to the morgue are necessary. It’s the lighting though. It’s far too bright and everything smells like bleach and somehow stale at the same time, as if death is just permeating the air molecules. 

Emma takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, shuddering despite her best efforts to control her limbs. 

“Hey,” Killian mutters. “It’s going to be fine, Swan. No matter what happens.”  
  
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes dart towards Ruby’s and there’s a warning there that Emma doesn't entirely appreciate. “How’d he die?” 

“Who?” 

“Mr. Teach. If they found him in the woods, there must have been a medical examiner there, right? Some kind of report.”  
  
Ruby makes a face – a stop sign in human form, but the question is already there and—“Just touch him and ask him how he killed Jones and who he was working for, Em.”   
  
“Wow, that was kind of blunt, Lucas,” Killian says. His gaze keeps moving back towards Emma though and she’s going to chew through her cheek by the time the day is over. 

She really wishes it were tomorrow. 

The Doctor never had to deal with this shit. That’s fundamentally untrue, but it makes her feel better to compare her problems to those of a fictional character who, eventually, was forced to blow up his entire planet. 

Emma just hopes she won’t have to do that too. 

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” she mumbles, tugging the glove off her right hand with her teeth when Killian continues to let go. She drops her phone onto the edge of the table. 

Charles Teach is old, that much is obvious. He’s got wrinkles around his eyes and a decidedly disheveled look to him that kind of screams no good, very bad villain. They’ve already removed his clothes, a mass of skin that’s marred with scars and jagged lines and a life that practically reaches out and smacks Emma across the face. 

And part of her knows that none of those marks are what killed him. 

The other part of her is screaming. Loudly. In her head. 

“Is that him, Jones?” Ruby asks, and Killian hums. 

“Yup. You’d think the Darkness would get better looking lackeys. He looks like he's been dead for a very long time, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s weird. Seriously, am I going to have to offer you a job?”  
  
“It’s probably better than me testing the market when I’m fairly certain I don’t have a social security number anymore.”

“Oh, yeah, it’d be weird explaining that at an interview probably.”

“Plus, look at all the fun we’re having. I think I’m starting to grow on you, Lucas. I knew it was only a matter of time.”  
  
Ruby gags. “Don’t press your luck.”

Killian chuckles again, a flash of a smile that does not belong near a guy who definitely does not look like he’s only been dead for a few hours. There’s a pallor to his skin that doesn’t make sense, gray and drawn and everything looks far too calm. 

A guy with a track record as long as Charles Teach should not have died a peaceful death. 

It is the single worst observation Emma has ever made. 

“Swan,” Killian prompts when Emma continues to stare at the man on the table in front of them. “Emma, love, you’ve actually got to—”  
  
“—Yeah, yeah, I know,” she interrupts sharply. Ruby clicks her tongue. 

She doesn’t think much about where she touches, swatting her hand against Teach’s and he doesn’t jerk up the way most bodies do. Emma hates that she thinks of them as bodies. He opens his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings as he lifts his head off the table. 

There’s a piece of hair sticking to his forehead. 

“Who the hell are you?” Teach asks, directing the question to, presumably, Emma. Her hand is still hanging very close to his. “And what the hell are you doing here, Jones? Didn’t I already kill you once?”  
  
“Yeah, I believe I was there for that,” Killian says flippantly. “Why’d you do that incidentally?”   
  
“Should have asked a few more questions before you met your untimely demise, my boy.”   
  
“Not your boy and honestly who says demise? That’s…”   
  
“Not important,” Ruby hisses. “Why’d you kill him? And what was the water for?”   
  
Thatcher narrows his eyes, but he almost looks impressed and Emma isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. “The water was for my master. I’m sure Jones told you that already.”   
  
“And that master,” Emma says, finding a bit of courage she didn’t expect and she’s not sure if it’s entirely because it feels like there’s sparks in between her fingers. The same fingers twisted up with Killian’s. “That’s the Darkness, right?”   
  
“You know far more than you’re giving yourself credit for.”   
  
“What the hell was the water for then? And why did he want Killian?”   
  
“It wasn’t Jones specifically,” Teach argues. “It was what he could do. It all timed up rather perfectly until he decided to be infuriatingly noble about it.”   
  
“Did that make negative sense to anyone else?” Ruby asks, glancing around the room as if there are more than the four of them there. 

Emma shrugs. “The magic, then? That’s...that’s a real thing?”  
  
“Can’t you feel it?” Teach asks. “It’s practically got its own frequency. Granted, part of that is how worried he is about you right now, but it’s there regardless. It’s rolling off you in waves.”   
  
“What does that have to do with the water?”   
  
She hates that she shouts the question, hates that she’s lost her last few strings of apparent sanity and control, but Killian squeezes her fingers again and tugs her hand up towards his lips and that can’t possibly be the right course of action. 

Emma couldn't care less. 

“My master,” Teach says. “He’s been looking for something, for a very long time, to bring back someone. And nothing has worked. It’s been...well, he’s been very disappointed. But we’d heard of something in those waters, a magical source of rejuvenation—”

“—Like the fountain of youth?” Killian asks. 

“Obviously not. The lad is dead already, keeping him young wouldn't do much of anything. The legend of this water said it could revive things that had been...not living. My master believed it would work, but he needed another magical being to transport it for him.”  
  
Ruby scoffs. “And that was Jones?”

“Obviously.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t the Darkness do it himself?” Emma presses, and Teach gets that same impressed look on his face. It sends a chill down her spine. “Cut out the magical middle man as it were.”   
  
“It was dangerous. And my master doesn’t need to involve himself in matters like this. Not when it wasn’t guaranteed and he’s looking for…”

Teach trails off, expression shifting again to something far closer to terror than Emma is entirely ready for. She glances at Ruby – who immediately holds her hands up in confusion. 

“Fat lot of help you are,” Emma grumbles. “Alright, so the Darkness is looking for something to revive someone, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? What...what else could there be?”

“You don’t know?”  
  
“Obviously not and you are running out of time.”   
  
“I’d answer her,” Killian adds, a wholly unnecessary and slightly gallant move that leaves Ruby with her tongue hanging out of her mouth and Emma blushing just a bit. Teach’s mouth twists, understanding settling on his face. 

Emma hopes there isn’t actually ice sitting at the base of her spine. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Teach says. “I’m assuming I’m already dead given my surroundings and I’d imagine I won’t be going back to that funeral home any time soon. So it’s really up to you. Jones wouldn’t help my master, so he had to die. It’s as simple as that.”  
  
“But you took my hand,” Killian growls. Teach’s laugh bounces off the walls and echoes around them, seemingly growing louder and more threatening and—  
  
“That’s part of the mystery my boy. Trust me, my master’s getting plenty of use out of it. He’s gone back to the start. He’ll figure you all out sooner or later. There’s no way around it.”   
  
“The start? And, wait, wait, did you say you were in the funeral home? What the hell were you doing there?”   
  
“Making sure you made it into the ground. Unfortunately I didn’t stick around long enough to guarantee that, but I can’t be entirely faulted when the whole world went pear shaped and—”   
  
“—Did you die in the funeral home? When?”   
  
“Are you dense?” Teach sneers, sitting up now and Emma keeps glancing at her phone. “Of course I was in the funeral home. I was there when you were there. How you got out and I didn’t is a question for the ages of course, but—”

He doesn’t finish. Emma doesn’t let him finish. She swings her hand out, skin against skin and Teach falls back on the table with a thump that sounds far too loud. 

Ruby curses under her breath. 

“Well,” she whispers. “At least we know how that ended. And you know...justice is kind of served. So points to us.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Emma argues. She squeezes her eyes closed, as if that will change the scene in front of her or stop Killian’s gaze from boring into the side of her head and she could play this moment out eight-hundred thousand times and she’d still never be prepared for the next few words out of his mouth. 

“What is going on?” Killian asks, low and a hint desperate. His thumb starts tapping against the back of Emma’s wrist, directly on top of her pulse point. She figures that’s what does her in. 

She doesn’t open her eyes. 

It’s a cowardly move. 

Emma feels like a coward. 

“There’s another rule to all of this,” she whispers. “Me, I mean. And what I can do. That...well, that I didn’t tell you yet.”  
  
Killian’s arm falls back to his side. Ruby curses again. “What kind of rule?” he asks. 

“Remember you wanted to know why it’s a minute? It’s uh...it’s because the universe needs to stay balanced or something and if a not-dead-anymore person stays alive longer than a minute then—”  
  
“—Someone else has to die,” Killian says. 

Emma’s eyes snap open. “How’d you know that?”  
  
“Context clues.”   
  
“That’s impressive.”   
  
“Yeah, it’s something isn’t it? So Teach died because you didn’t kill me. Did you know that was going to happen?” Emma nods – quick and jerky and painful, but that may just be the echo of Ruby’s heel in a room filled with a bunch of dead people. “Did you know who it would be?”   
  
“No, it’s not…”   
  
“Right. Right. Just a trick of fate and happy coincidence.”   
  
Emma isn’t sure what to do with that tone of voice. It’s not angry and she knows he’s not, not really. The man on the table in front of them killed Killian, cut off his hand for reasons they still can’t figure out and apparently serves some mythical being with the worst villain name in the history of several universes, but he’s looking at her like he’s never seen her before and it’s not the exciting, slightly overwhelming gaze it’s been in the last few days. 

It’s like he can’t quite come to terms with her. It’s like he’s wondering if maybe she is, in fact, wrong. Emma bites her cheek again. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she says, not sure why she’s still talking. Ruby is going to sprain her tongue. “This,” Emma waves her hand towards Teach. “That wasn’t part of the plan. And I mean—”  
  
“—He did kill you,” Ruby adds, grinning when Emma flashes an appreciative glance in her direction. “So, you know, if we’re keeping tally marks in the Emma saving your ass column...”

Killian doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t even blink, but his eyes drift back towards Emma and she tries not to breathe too much. It feels like he’s taking stock of her again and she desperately wants to live up to expectations. 

She’s still not telling him everything. 

“That’s true,” Killian says eventually. “Thank you, Swan.” Emma wishes she could nod like a normal person. Her lungs are going to rise up in protest of her. “But,” he adds, and Ruby might try to actually cast a spell on him. “There’s one part I don’t entirely understand. Teach said he was in the funeral home, but they found him by the line. And now...going back to the start. The Darkness, I mean, was going back to the start. Where do we go? It’s not like we know who this thing is.”  
  
“I still don’t think it’s an alien,” Emma mumbles. It’s a piss-poor attempt at a joke and control and Ruby rolls her eyes so hard it must hurt. 

She throws both her hands in the air when she, apparently, comes to some sort of conclusion. “Oh, fuck, fucking fuck!”  
  
“Eloquent.”   
  
“Shut up, Em. You have your car?”   
  
“Do you want me to shut up or…”   
  
“Oh my God. We have to go. We have to go now. Jones, would your uncles be in your house, right now?”   
  
“Yes,” Killian says slowly, drifting back into Emma’s space. She doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “They don’t...oh fuck.”

“Can someone tell me what is happening?” Emma yells. 

“The start. He’d go back to try and find whatever he was looking for. Whatever Thatch thinks he needed my hand for.”  
  
“And that would probably be a little jarring for your shut-in uncles, yes?” Ruby asks, already moving towards the door and brushing by a clearly confused Victor. 

Emma suddenly understands. 

She needs to expand her curse vocabulary. 

Because the Darkness is on his way to Storybrooke. 

* * *

Emma doesn’t actually count how long it takes them to get to Killian’s house, but she isn’t sure she’s ever driven that fast and she’s going to get at least half a dozen tickets for running all those red lights. 

Killian’s out of the car before she’s really stopped it, running up steps with long strides and ignoring both Emma and Ruby’s cries to _wait two seconds, Jesus_. That last part is mostly Ruby. 

The house itself is exactly the way Emma remembers. 

The shutters are still that same shade of blue Liam picked when they were kids – an afternoon that felt like torture at the time, but quickly dissolved into paint-stained clothes and color-streaked cheeks. There aren’t any chairs on the porch anymore, the curtains drawn closed on the huge bay window in the front of the house and Emma can see the fabric fluttering slightly, as if something or someone is standing just inside them. 

“Killian,” she calls again, but he’s already bounding up the steps. He jumps over the third one. It creaks. And he doesn’t bother closing the door behind him, the screen slamming against the side of the house and Emma’s out of breath by the time she catches up to him. 

There’s no one inside. 

At least it doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside. 

Everything feels as if it’s been paused, a stillness that’s unnerving and incorrect in a house like this where Emma only knew laughter and smiles and blanket forts with incredibly detailed engineering. She lets her eyes flit around the room, taking in the differences. There are more frames on the wall now, Killian at a variety of ages with a variety of hair styles and two men Emma only has vague memories of. 

There are pillows everywhere, decorative lamps that are just treading the line between classy and ostentatious, blankets draped over both couches. 

She reaches her hand out before she thinks about, probably something to do with magnets or those words she’s been ignoring for the better part of the day and it doesn’t really matter because Killian moves his hand behind him to grab at her too and that’s when everything suddenly and completely goes to shit. 

It’s as if an explosion goes off, a darkness so deep Emma briefly wonders if it’s possible for the villain of this story to toy with the sun. 

She blinks, gripping Killian’s fingers like a lifeline and one of them must mutter _we’re going to be ok_ , but Emma genuinely has no idea who it is. She’s far too busy shrinking back from the laughter that’s suddenly surrounding them, jarring and victorious and just a little unhinged. 

The darkness ebbs slightly, bright enough that Emma can make out the shadow in front of her. 

And, for half a moment, that’s all it is – a shadow and smoke over the water, but then the laughter grows and the magic in her veins sings, doing its best to battle back. It doesn’t work. Particularly when the shadow turns corporal and the smile on the Darkness’ face is like nothing Emma has ever seen. 

“We’re ok, love,” Killian whispers. “It’s ok.”  
  
She must shake her head – can feel her hair shift against her neck, but the words get caught in her throat and the Darkness hasn’t stopped staring at her. 

Emma barely notices the other men who have appeared there, faces that match the ones in the frames and one of them curses when he sees Killian standing there. “No,” he mutters. “No, no, that’s going too far. Kill us. It’d be better than this.”

The Darkness laughs again. 

It makes his whole body shake, head thrown back and Emma suddenly notices there’s a slight glimmer to his skin, like he’s glowing and it may be the single worst thing she’s ever seen. 

Until he snaps his head back, eyes meeting hers and she will eventually wish she didn’t whimper. In the moment, though, she can’t seem to do anything else. She holds her breath and tries to melt into the floor, but she can’t do that either and she can’t turn into Killian’s side and every single promise he makes falls on deaf ears. 

“I thought he’d bring you,” the Darkness says, the same triumphant look that was in his smile working its way into his voice. “You’re rather predictable, but the good ones always are.”  
  
“What do you want?” Killian asks. Nemo, Emma thinks it’s Nemo, curses again, doing his best to fight against the rope tying him to the chair he’s sitting on. 

The Darkness waves a finger through the air. “You already know that, dearie. There’s no point in rehashing. I know you spoke to Teach.”  
  
“How?”   
  
“Please, I know everything. That’s how I know this is going to work. Because the good ones are always easy to get an edge on and,” he lets out a low whistle, taking a step closer to them as Killian tries to push Emma behind him, “she’s practically bursting with it. But first we need to clear the air a little bit.”

“Meaning?”  
  
Emma gasps, the realization striking her like lightning or something equally metaphorical and terrible and she kind of wishes it weren’t metaphorical because then she wouldn’t have to do this. It feels a bit like blowing up her planet. 

Or at least the sun she’s started orbiting around. 

She’s not even sure that makes sense. 

She really has no idea how anything scientific works. 

The Darkness bobs on the balls of his feet – an absurd sentence and an absurd visual, particularly when his skin has gotten even brighter, like he’s growing more powerful the longer Emma plays coward. He lets out another laugh. 

Shakespeare might be the one who curses that time. 

“Oh, this is going to be delightful,” the Darkness says, a wistful sigh that makes Emma wonder how long he’s waited for this.   
  
“I don’t need you anymore. Well, no that’s not true, I’ll take you, but I’d rather have her and—”  
  
“—You’re not getting Emma,” Killian growls. “I’m not...not again.”   
  
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, dearie. I should have known from the very start it wasn’t you. You were just...a leech, a latch on, a sponge.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Of the magical variety.”   
  
“I don’t…”   
  
“Oh, I know you don’t,” the Darkness continues. “But magic leaves a mark. It lingers where it matters and Cora should have realized. That was foolish of me. To believe she’d be able to differentiate and, well, I do admit it’s close, but…”   
  
“Make some goddamn sense!”   
  
“Oh my God, Killian,” Nemo sighs. 

Killian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t let go of Emma’s hand. And Emma is only slightly confused. She’s mostly doing her best not to cry. 

The Darkness stares at her again.   
  
“But you my dear,” he says, a longing in the words that makes her whole body ache. “You are something entirely new. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. The only problem is I need you to be free of those pesky secrets that have been crippling your magic. The Savior can’t have that.”   
  
Emma blinks. “The what?”   
  
“We’ll get to that. First thing’s first though. The truth, Ms. Swan. About what happened in this house all those years ago and how you’ve spent your entire life running from it. Then the fun will begin.”

She tastes blood in her mouth, vision blurring with tears she can’t bring herself to cry because it is her fault and it’s always been her fault and she should have told him from the start. 

She’s wrong. 

From the very start.   
  
“Swan, what is he…” Killian starts, but his eyes widen when the Darkness moves back towards Shakespeare, a knife at his throat and a predatory glint in his stare. 

“Go ahead, Savior,” the Darkness sneers. “Or we’ll start killing. I’m not nearly as upset about it as you are.”  
  
Killian spins on the spot – ignoring the villain and the knife pressed to his uncle’s neck and Emma’s breath hitches when his glove-covered hand brushes her cheek, catching a tear on the fabric. The whole thing is very cyclical. 

She hates it. 

“Like the goddamn sun,” he mumbles, and it doesn’t make sense. It makes a negative amount of sense, but Emma exhales like it’s the single most important sentence ever uttered and—

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.”

Killian’s hand falls away from her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good cliffhanger. So, uh, the stuff. It's happening. Let's get more magical, shall we?
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I am shouting about the NHL playoffs, writing more hockey fic and then shouting about hockey some more.


	6. Chapter 6

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately, eleven hours old when the Earth appears to lose its entire atmosphere. 

She doesn’t gasp, which is kind of disappointing. She just, kind of, sort of freezes, muscles tensing and body going taught with the tension that had been lingering just under the surface of everything since she made the one decision that changed everything. 

Someone curses. 

Emma can’t tell if it’s Ruby or Shakespeare, but there’s some kind of scuffle happening just out of the edge of her vision and there are goons in the living room she hadn’t noticed before. 

She still hasn’t moved. 

She isn’t entirely sure she can. 

Coward. 

The Darkness laughs gleefully, a sound that grates on Emma’s ears and feels a bit like nails on a chalkboard or just, actual, literal nails. He’s moving his fingers, a quick tap against each other, bouncing from one foot to the other and it’s as unnatural as it is disturbing. 

“Oh, I knew that would be good, but I never expected it to play out like that,” he says. The words rush out of him, as if he can’t say them quickly enough to keep up with whatever dance he’s doing in the middle of the rug. 

The rug has tassels on it. 

“Beautiful,” the Darkness continues. “Absolutely beautiful. Tell me, Savior, how does it feel to get that off your chest? I’d imagine it’s a relief.”

Emma exhales, another mistake, but she’s piling those up faster than she can count them at this point and the space between her and Killian feels as vast as several Grand Canyons. She turns her head slowly, not trusting herself to go any faster and he’s staring straight ahead. 

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t close his mouth. 

She can see him breathing, shoulders shaking with the effort of doing it consistently and she understands that. She assumes the oxygen levels can’t possibly be the same once the atmosphere has been compromised. 

“Although,” the Darkness says, leaning towards Emma with a very specific glint in his eyes. “It appears to be quite a shock to both of you. Thoughts, dead man?”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer him. His gaze snaps towards Emma, darker than she can remember it and that’s not right at all. 

He’s not supposed to look like that. 

He’s not supposed to feel like that. 

The buzzing in her head is barely more than an echo now. 

“Say it again,” Killian mutters, and at first Emma doesn’t understand. She’s half a second away from mumbling _what_ under her breath, but then he’s half a step in front of her and it somehow feels even farther away. “Say it again. The truth, Emma.”   
  
Her eyes flutter closed at the sound of her own name, the pain and disappointment and absolute _hurt_ obvious in all four letters. 

“I’m the reason Liam is dead.”  
  
“How?”   
  
The question catches her off guard, an edge to his voice that’s brand-new as well and maybe they’ve just been teleported to a different timeline entirely. That would almost make more sense. 

“I don’t—” Emma starts, but Killian’s already shaking her head and a goon groans when Ruby, presumably, kicks him in the heel. “Yeah, that’s not fair, is it?”  
  
“You’re asking me about fair? Honestly? With a goddamn demon a foot away from us?”   
  
“Oh now, I resent that,” the Darkness chides. Ruby sounds like she’s trying to actually beat several people with her Louboutins. “I’m hardly a demon.”   
  
“What the hell are you then?”   
  
“Something the world has been waiting a very long time for. But you haven’t gotten your answers yet have you? And you want them. Oh, do you. I can feel it you know, dead man. The need and the questions and the certainty that something was wrong since the start. Because you’ve always believed that haven’t you? It was wrong. Everything about it was wrong.”

The Darkness grins again – slow and reptilian, the movement snaking across his face until his entire expression looks twisted and inhuman. His eyebrows jump and twist, certainty in every shift as the lights flicker around them. 

Emma does her best to stay upright, but it’s becoming an increasingly difficult challenge. The words keep bouncing around her head, ricocheting off nerve endings and synapses and whatever else makes up the human brain. 

It’s like a scratched CD, stuck on one string of lyrics and one sentence, a few words that play on repeat and threaten to drive Emma even more insane than she already is. 

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

She’s been wrong since the start. 

“It didn’t make sense,” the Darkness whispers, leering at Killian with wide eyes that have suddenly taken on a distinctly yellow pallor. “Even then. Even now. He was young. He had his whole life ahead of him and she stole that from you.”  
  
Emma must make a noise because she can feel Ruby’s eyes land on her, but she’s not entirely sure what it is, just knows that it hurts every single inch of her. She wraps her arms around her middle, desperate to keep herself together in a metaphorical and literal sense. 

Killian keeps blinking. 

Like he’s trying to figure out what is and isn’t real.

“How, Swan?” 

Her breath catches when he looks at her – pleading and desperate and so impossibly blue she knows she’d never be able to forget it. He called her Swan again. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers. “She, um...well, she died. I went back across the street, remember? It was..it was lunch and I was soaking wet and—”  
  
“—You kept trying to spray me with the hose.”   
  
“That’s not what happened at all.”   
  
Killian doesn’t quite smile, but there’s almost an attempt and Emma appreciates that. “We were going to go ride our bikes down the hill later.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” she nods, and her tongue feels far too big for her mouth. “I went upstairs, to change and get the mud out from underneath my fingernails and I heard a crash and I...I got back to the kitchen and Ingrid was dead.”

“She wasn’t later, though.”  
  
“Yeah, I think you’ve already figured out how that happened.”   
  
“Did you know?”   
  
“That touching Ingrid would bring her back to life? Or that she could only stay alive for a certain amount of time? Or that when she kissed me goodnight later I’d kill her?” 

Killian’s eyes flash, another string of fairly impressive curses from the peanut gallery and, maybe, one of the goons and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma drags her hand roughly over her cheek, no doubt leaving an angry red streak in her wake, but the tears have started to fall or are still falling and she’s kind of angry now. 

She’s kind of furious. 

And so goddamn alone she’s positive she reeks with it. 

“Any of those actually,” Killian mumbles. He doesn’t reach towards her, but he doesn’t back away again and Emma’s really starting to cling to these half victories. 

“No. That was—”  
  
“—That was the first time.”   
  
It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact and a little pitying, which is a little disappointing, but Emma barely musters up a nod of agreement so maybe she deserves the pity. 

“And you,” he whispers. “You didn’t…”  
  
“What was I supposed to say? I had no idea what had happened. It was all...everything happened so quickly. Ingrid was dead and I didn’t want her to be dead and then suddenly she wasn’t and—God, I didn’t want Liam to be dead. I wouldn’t…” Emma runs out of air, lips dry from breathing erratically through her mouth “I couldn’t do that to you,” she whispers. “Not when—”   
  
“—Not when she was so consumed with several other very important emotions,” the Darkness interrupts, a note of impatience in his voice that seems more unfair than just about anything else that’s happened in the last few minutes. 

One of the lightbulbs in the nearest decorative lamp shatters. 

“And that, of course, is the crux of our little meeting here.”  
  
Killian tilts his head. “It’s a meeting then, is it?”   
  
“Have I brought you here against your will, dead man? Have I bound you? Gagged you? Dragged through the streets kicking and screaming?”   
  
“You did kill me.”   
  
“No, no, no, that wasn’t me. That was Mr. Teach. We’ve covered that already.”   
  
“Seems a little bit like splitting hairs,” Emma grumbles, a hint of decidedly out of place sarcasm. She knows Ruby is smiling at her. 

“It’s a fact, Ms. Swan,” the Darkness corrects. “And very important to our little tale. Are you and the dead man done discussing things? Because I’d like to get to the point of all of this.”  
  
“There’s a point?”   
  
He scoffs, almost amused. “Of course there is. And it’s a very important, very sharp point that will change the course of everything.”   
  
“Why did you bring up Liam?” Killian asks. “That—Emma hadn’t told me before.”   
  
“You know it’s rather disappointing to be proved so incredibly wrong in such a short span of time. You’re quite lacking on the intelligent front. I explained that already.”   
  
The last few words come out a bit like a hiss – more reptilian jokes and puns and allusions and Emma can hear the disappointment lingering in Killian’s voice. She licks her lips again. “And you seem like you’re wasting time,” Emma challenges. “Teach said you were trying to bring someone back. Someone important to you? A kid, maybe? Where are they?”   
  
She regrets the question as soon as it’s out of her mouth. 

The Darkness doesn’t yell. Doesn’t say anything. But his eyes go impossibly dark, no color, just a vast expanse of nothing that seems to stretch out in front of Emma and she can feel the rage ripple in the air around them. 

It tastes like rotten eggs, a stench that doesn’t remind her of anything and yet somehow feels impossibly familiar, as if it’s always been lingering just on the edge of her consciousness, an _almost_ that threatens to drag her away. 

“Don’t talk about him,” the Darkness seethes. “Not yet. Not until I explain what has to happen.”  
  
“And what has to happen, exactly?” Ruby asks, twisting against her own strand of rope and there’s suddenly a gag in her mouth. She flinches at the fabric, stuffed in between her lips, and both Emma and Killian lunge forward at the same time. 

The Darkness clicks his tongue. “No, no, none of that. I have the upper hand here. I do.”  
  
There’s a distinct lack of confidence in the sentence, like he’s convincing himself or reminding himself and the realization sends a rush of something that may almost be misplaced confidence down Emma’s spine. 

“Of course you do,” she says, doing her best to keep her voice even. “Why did you bring up Liam? And what...you keep calling me different things.”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
Emma opens her mouth to object, but reconsiders it as soon as she sees the look on his face and the floor creaks under Killian’s feet when he shifts towards her. Her lungs appreciate that. It’s easier to breathe when he lingers in her space. 

“I’m not,” the Darkness repeats. “I’m telling you what you are. This is the start. This house and the belief it fostered in you. You’re brimming with belief, Savior.”  
  
“That’s not true.”   
  
“Ah, but isn’t it? You grew up here, trusted everything that happened here and even after it all disappeared, you remembered it, didn’t you? Knew it was true and honest and it kept you both of those things. It made you even more powerful.”   
  
Emma blinks. “I don’t—”   
  
“—I know, I know, you don’t understand and it can’t possibly be real and you couldn’t be more wrong. Haven’t you ever wondered what happened to your parents?”   
  
She stumbles over her own feet, an impressive achievement since she doesn’t really move, but it feels as if the foundations of the entire goddamn house shift underneath her. Killian’s breath is warm on her neck as soon as Emma rolls her shoulders, desperate to maintain her flimsy grip on the situation. 

“Just keep breathing, love,” he whispers. 

“Yeah, easy for you to say.”  
  
He chuckles, and Emma isn’t sure if the brush of something she feels on the curve of her shoulder is his lips or just her own misplaced and decidedly wishful thinking, but it’s nice either way and she inhales until it feels as if her lungs will burst. 

“Jokes at the end of the world, Swan? That’s impressive.”  
  
“Something, something full of surprises.”   
  
It’s definitely his lips. 

Ruby groans through her gag. 

“You know they loved you quite a bit, Savior,” the Darkness says, seemingly unperturbed by flirting at the end of the world. Emma assumes that’s not exactly how he sees it. “Your parents, that is. Fought tooth and nail to protect you.”  
  
“My parents gave me up,” Emma argues. She’s been told the story hundreds of times, heard it in every house and from every social worker, the ones she barely remembers before Ingrid and the ones that are ingrained in her memory after. 

The story never changed. It only ever seemed to get worse, more proof that she deserved everything she got and needed to push and run and the Darkness shakes his head deftly. 

He’s got that amused look in his eyes again. 

“Tell me something, Savior, what do you know of magic?”  
  
“Aside from my ability to wake the dead?” He hums, stuffing his hands in his pockets and Emma only just notices how unkempt he looks. There are wrinkles in his pants and a few tears in his jacket, a hole in his right sleeve that looks large enough to stick several fingers through. The hem of his shirt is frayed and he’s missing a button on his waistcoat. 

He’s wearing a waistcoat. 

That seems strange. 

“Yes, aside from that.”  
  
Emma shrugs. “Nothing. This is...this is the real world. Magic—”  
  
“—Oh, don’t tell me you believe magic isn’t real, Savior. Don’t insult both of us like that.”   
  
“Explain it then.”   
  
It’s more misplaced confidence – a demand Emma can’t possibly make, but it makes the Darkness laugh again and half a dozen frames fall off the wall by the staircase. Killian shifts, fingers brushing over the side of Emma’s arm and it’s selfish and greedy and absolutely, positively wrong, but she twists into. Like a selfish, greedy asshole.   
  
“That,” the Darkness says, nodding at their hands. “That’s it.”   
  
Emma tries not to growl. It does not work. “What’s what?”

“Magic. We live in a world where magic used to fill the air. It lingered in the wind and the trees, grew out of certainty and feeling and love. It was...rampant. It was a wonderful place.”  
  
“And then?”   
  
“And then something happened. The world grew too lopsided. There needed more of a balance and magic started to grow more and more scarce. It started to change as well, a twist and a bastardization to it that shifted the very fabric of magic as itself. There was a split, Savior. Between light magic and dark, between those with power and those who understood it. And for quite some time that was acceptable.”   
  
“Who accepted it?” Emma asks, but she’s got a horrible feeling that she already knows the answer. “You? The Darkness?”   
  
“In the flesh. As they say.”   
  
“Did you twist magic yourself?”   
  
He waves a dismissive hand in the air, as if he’s almost embarrassed, but Emma can feel the surge of power and she’s certain the walls have started to shake. A few of the goons mumble something that sounds like _master_ and _power_ and the whole thing has taken a rather cultish turn. Killian’s fingers tighten against her sleeve. 

“How old are you?” he asks. “And how long has your son been dead?”  
  
The rest of the frames fall off the wall. A few more lights shatter and one of the chairs not currently being occupied by someone who may actually be a hostage at this point, topples over. 

Killian arches an eyebrow. “It’s been quite some time hasn’t it? That’s what Teach said. You’d been looking for something...something that would be able to bring him back. How long has it been? How many times have you been wrong?”

“Enough,” the Darkness shouts. “We’re not talking about Baelfire yet.”  
  
“Yet.”   
  
“You’ve already been dead once, I wouldn’t try to push my luck. Not when you’re standing so close to your own personal noose.”   
  
Emma hisses, the words slamming into her like shards of glass and she actually has to look down to make sure she’s not bleeding out on the rug. She assumes neither Shakespeare nor Nemo would appreciate that. 

And she’s already done a shit job of making a good first impression. 

“What happened to my parents?” she asks. “Everything I was ever told was that they were gone, gave me up and didn’t—didn’t want me. That’s...there was no one there.”  
  
The Darkness shrugs, rocking back on his heels and his confidence appears to have returned as soon as Killian tensed at his threat. He moves, circling around the room like a goddamn vulture and the death puns really need to stop. 

Emma wishes she could sit down. 

“Some of that is true,” the Darkness concedes. “But I suppose part of the reason there was no one there had to do with me. And, well, as the dead man says, I’ve been looking for something that will fix things for quite some time.”  
  
“You’re still talking in riddles.”   
  
“And you keep interrupting. Where was I? Magic changing?” 

Emma nods, and it feels absurd, a hint of _normal_ in a conversation that is anything but. She can see Nemo trying to unknot the rope twisted around him out of the corner of her eye. She bites her lip. 

“That’s right,” the Darkness muses. He tilts his head up towards the ceiling, a forced casualness to it that Emma couldn’t possibly hate more. “The universe is big and vast and obnoxious, Savior. It has rules and regulations and power is never given to those who really, truly deserve it. There are limitations to all magic, always some kind of price that must be paid, but there was also a rumor, about a magic that was stronger than anything else. That could defy the laws and exceed expectations. That might be able to change things that otherwise ought not to be changed.”  
  
Emma’s throat is shrinking. She’s positive. “And what was that?”   
  
“Why, True Love, of course.”   
  
“That’s impossible.”   
  
“Is it?”   
  
The argument is sitting on the tip of her tongue, begging to be made. It’s there and real and rational, a hint of _normal_ , but Emma’s never been entirely normal and she can’t bring herself to actually say anything. 

The Darkness grins. “It’s nice when I’m right.”  
  
“What does that have to do with me, though?” Emma asks. “I’m—I’ve never seen anyone else go around waking the dead or—”

“—Being the product of True Love with her own True Love, makes the power run twice over.”  
  
It’s honestly a miracle she hasn’t fallen over once during this conversation. In the grand scheme of almost victories and emotional upheavals, Emma might be most proud of that one, particular thing. Her knees feel like they’re made of granite at this point. 

“Excuse me?” she breathes, and Ruby might try and laugh at her poor attempt at polite. 

The Darkness stops walking. “What part of that was confusing?”  
  
“Well...I mean, all of it?”   
  
“Ah, this is why it would have been better to find you earlier, Savior. You’d get your answers, I’d get my boy and we’d rule the cosmos.”

Emma still doesn’t fall over. She makes the single most ridiculous noise in the history of any noise made by any living organism, but she doesn’t actually fall over. She does, however, sag slightly, a rush of oxygen and emotion and hair in her eyes. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Emma breathes, voice turning manic and she’s started looking for escape routes and windows to jump out of. 

She’s fairly certain they can’t outrun the Darkness. 

The Darkness shakes his head in frustration. They are all in desperate need of haircuts. “It’s growing incredibly difficult to spell out every single thing to all of you,” he sighs. “There was a rumor, of a magic that was going to change everything, a strength that had previously never been seen and, very likely, would never be seen again. It was a convergence of everything, a happy accident that could change the fates with a flash of her fingers. And, well, I regret to tell you, Savior that, at first, I didn’t realize it was you.”

“You thought it was my parents.”  
  
“I did. That kind of love, oh—” He lets out a low whistle, shivering exaggeratedly and Emma has to bite down on both of her lips to stop herself from doing something foolish. “It was potent,” the Darkness continues. “Like a field of flowers and sunshine and all those particularly good things. Nauseating, if not useful. They loved each other and they loved you. And I believed if I was able to bottle that, then I’d be able to bring my boy back.”   
  
“It didn’t work, though.”   
  
“Obviously not,” he growls, and Emma doesn’t think she imagines how his teeth have been growing sharper every time he flashes them. “I’d never dealt in True Love before. It was intoxicating, that kind of power and the rush of what I could do. But it was also volatile and it knew that I was, well, not of the same cloth shall we say.”   
  
“You’re talking about it like it’s alive,” Killian says. The accusation in his voice is obvious and the Darkness laughs softly at it. 

“Because it is. Magic is a living, breathing entity that’s part of everyone in possession of it. The people are alive, why shouldn’t the magic be?”  
  
Emma considers that for a moment, loathe to admit that it makes more sense than just about any of the shit the guy has been spewing. She’s never been entirely sure what happened that made her _this_ , but ever since that first moment on the other side of the street, she’s been aware of it, of the hum beneath her skin, the rush in her veins and the buzzing in her ears that roars to life every single time Killian glances her direction. 

The Darkness makes another noise of triumph. 

“Oh, this is going to work,” he says, sounding as if he’s half talking to himself again and possibly doing his best to psych himself up. “Where was I?”  
  
“You’re a shit story teller,” Killian hisses. He’s moved again, turning his back on the villain and staring at Emma with a look that’s different and the same as all the other ones, treading a line that feels impossibly important. His lips twitch slightly. 

“And you’re incredibly rude, dead man.”  
  
“Did you kill my parents?” Emma asks. She reaches out again, more instinct and want and less-than-good adjectives, but she swears she can feel the warmth radiating off Killian and he feels so goddamn _alive_ , she’s got to make sure he’s real. 

“Not on purpose.”  
  
“I’m not sure the universe gives a fuck about that.”   
  
Emma jerks her head towards him, almost prepared for the slink of a smile that moves across his face. “I suppose you’re right,” the Darkness shrugs. “It wasn’t my intention to kill them. That would have been foolish. I wasn’t sure how any of this was going to work, why would I use my entire magic supply in one fell swoop?”   
  
Her stomach leaps into her throat as soon as the weight of those words settle into every single corner of her brain and the sob that wracks through Emma’s entire body hurts more than those metaphorical glass shards from a few minutes before. 

She can’t catch her breath, feels like she’s run several marathons and sprinted up and down the hill on the other side of town. Her vision swims in front of her, black spots appearing in her eye line and everything feels as if it’s flipped over and then being kicked for good measure. 

And it’s everything she’s always feared, the deepest, darkest worries in the deepest, darkest corners of her, the certainty that someone, eventually, would find her and keep her and make sure they wring every last bit of magic out of her, until there was nothing left, just a shall of a something that maybe belonged to someone at some point. 

“It was admittedly a little frustrating when they went and died like that,” the Darkness mutters, no trace of actual remorse in the words. 

Emma isn’t sure who tries to move quicker. 

Ruby kicks at the goon closest to her, drawing a hiss of pain out of him when it appears her heel has actually made him bleed. Her eyes are no more than slits, but the anger is practically reverberating around her, and Nemo has gotten rid of the knots twisted around his wrists with relative ease. 

He slams his right fist into the face that lunges towards him. There’s a crack of skin and skin and more yelling, something that sounds like a jaw snapping and Emma can’t stop shivering. Shakespeare doesn’t bother undoing anything. He just stands up with the chair still strapped to him, swinging it around like it’s an actual weapon and managing to take down three men twice his size in the process. 

Killian, for his part, hasn’t moved away from Emma – or turned back around to the scene that’s dissolved into absolute chaos behind him.   
  
He drags his hands over her jacket-covered arms, scrunching fabric under his fingers and she can’t blink, can’t look away or breathe or do anything except tilt her head up and try and remember that there's something good and something to believe in and it’s not the right moment, is the absolute worst moment, but there might not be another moment and—

“I love you,” Emma whispers, barely loud enough to hear herself. She knows Killian does. 

The force of his smile is so strong she swears it settles into the pit of her stomach and the base of her heels, a weight that doesn’t threaten to yank her down, but steadies her and calms her and his grip on her arms tightens slightly. 

Like he’s making sure she’s there too. 

Killian’s eyes flutter, Emma’s nails digging into her palms again to stop herself from tracing her thumb over the scar on his cheek. He doesn’t sigh, but he might exhale, letting go of _something_ that might just be everything and—

“Thank God,” he mutters. “I love you. I can’t...I can’t remember when I didn’t.”  
  
Emma’s relief is wrong. It’s out of place and ill-timed, but that could probably be the subhead of her life at this point and she needed him to know. 

At least once. 

And she doesn’t realize at first, can’t hear anything over the rush of magic and belief, but then Ruby yells her name and some goon slams his foot into her stomach and everything that might have been good suddenly comes crashing down. 

Literally. 

Another lamp falls over 

“I’d hate to interrupt and I really do loathe rehashing plot points, but I do love being right,” the Darkness says, slow and measured and so victorious Emma is certain it will be the reason she can’t ever get the goosebumps off her arms. “Now, none of you are going to try that again are you?” he asks, glancing back over his shoulder at the re-tied rope and upright chairs. 

There are tears on Ruby’s cheeks. 

“I’d hate to have to take steps,” the Darkness adds. “Savior, please tell your friends not to distract me again.”  
  
Emma swallows back the lump of emotion sitting in the middle of her throat. She tries to take a step towards Ruby, but two different goons move into her space and they must be multiplying somewhere. Maybe they’re actually clones. 

Magic clones make sense at this point. 

“It’s ok,” she whispers, a lie that makes even more tears spring to her eyes. She must be close to setting a record. “It’s...we’re going to be ok.”  
  
The Darkness hums in agreement. “There, now that that’s settled. Let’s get back to the task. True Love, dead parents, a missing baby who just...disappeared as soon as I turned my back.”   
  
“What?” 

“I genuinely do not know how to make that any clearer.”  
  
“Your magic, love,” Killian mumbles. “You must have...have you ever teleported before?”

She gapes at him. “Are you serious?”  
  
“I have no idea, at this point.”

“It’s entirely possible that you did,” the Darkness says. He’s stopped walking, perched instead on the top of the slightly ornate couch in the corner of the room. Every kick of his legs out makes Emma grit her teeth. “As I said, your magic is quite a bit different than mine. It might not have appreciated being, well, targeted like that. Although it did set us on this path now.”  
  
Emma lifts her eyebrows. “And what path is that?”   
  
“I need your magic, Savior. The same magic that was prophesied as the strongest of any magic the world has ever seen. You see, it’s taken a very long time to make sure that that happened, but your little display with the dead man helps explain it.”   
  
“Why did Killian have to die? That’s...that’s the one part I can’t figure out.”   
  
“That’s the one part you can’t figure out?” Killian mutters, grunting slightly when Emma steps on his foot. His grin is absurd. It makes it easier to breathe. 

God. 

“You met Cora again recently, yes?” the Darkness asks, Emma nodding before he’s finished the question. “Then you know that our former Madam Mayor had quite a talent. She could see what people wanted and was particularly good at discerning those with other abilities. I’d almost given up on finding you, Savior. I’d been searching for so long and, well, it’s not as if True Love happens every day. In fact, your parents are the last case I’ve found until today.”  
  
Emma’s knees finally give up. 

She crashes to the ground in a heap, a twist of limbs and Killian’s distinct inability to hold onto her when she moves. The tears on her cheeks feel as if they’re burning their way down her skin.

Killian’s head snaps towards her, eyes wide and that same pleading look from before. As if he’s desperate for more confirmation or more magic and Emma is loath to realize she can’t bring herself to produce either. 

She feels drained and exhausted and the Darkness is still talking. 

“Is that surprising?” he asks lightly, another leg kick that ends with his boot ripping the back of the couch. “I’m honestly a little disappointed in myself that I didn’t realize from the very beginning. As soon as I got to this charming little hamlet, it was obvious. The feel of it. It hangs here, like a blanket. But, as they say, when you want something done right, you have to do it yourself and, well, I trusted Cora. That was foolish of me.”  
  
“Is that why you killed her?” Emma rasps, voice scratching its way out of her. 

The Darkness quirks his lips. “It was certainly part of the reason. A large part. Cora was positive that Mr. Jones had magic. She told me he was desperate to leave this life behind, couldn’t stand to be holed up in this house for a moment long and, oh—”  
  
He glances at the stunned expressions on Nemo and Shakespeare’s faces, another smile and press of his tongue against his cheek. It’s disarming, the confidence there and the evil that makes the word evil seem less absurd in context. 

“Touchy subject, isn’t it?”  
  
Killian can’t seem to decide where to move. He wobbles on his feet, jerking between Emma, still on the floor, and his uncles, still tied up in their own goddamn chairs. His hand shakes when he reaches up to tug on his hair. 

“That’s not,” he starts, but the rest of the sentence gets caught in his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Can I get back to my story?” the Darkness asks lightly, and Emma doesn’t think before she reacts. She throws her hand out, swiping it through air that suddenly feels a bit like soup and the rush that flashes through her veins is as overwhelming as it is intoxicating. 

She’s got no idea what she’s trying to accomplish, only knows that she has to do something, _anything_ , and Killian’s strangled _Emma_ as soon as it happens seems to slink down her spine. Right next to the promises and the guarantees and that one, particular smile. 

Emma’s never actually seen a body fly across a living room that’s decorated well enough to belong in several different magazines and someone gasps when the Darkness slams into the far wall. It might be her. She might gasp. 

The Darkness laughs. 

Loudly. 

He stays down for a moment, shoulders shaking until he lifts himself up, sitting cross legged on the floor with his chin resting on his fingers. It’s ridiculous. 

“Power,” he says simply. “And it was never the dead man’s.”  
  
“Explain that,” Emma demands. She doesn’t remember standing, but her knees crack with the effort of it and there’s sweat pooling at the base of her spine. 

“Cora was wrong. Well, not entirely wrong, but not entirely right. You’ve always had magic, Savior. The power of your parent's True Love passed onto you. And that would have made you a valuable ally. But then you ended up here, in this town and in that house, with this very specific house across the street. 

“You grew up and you believed and you trusted and you fell in love didn’t you? You didn’t know what that would mean, but you were only a child, so I suppose it’s an acceptable naiveté. It festered in you and grew, every single time you were here and every single time you promised. That’s why it’s stronger in some places than others in this town. This house, the hill—oh, it’s rife with magic, that sort of thing always leaves a mark behind.”  
  
“You’re avoiding the answer,” Emma accuses. Her fingers twist at her side, something that feels like actual sparks shooting out the ends. 

The Darkness shakes his head. “I’m prefacing. There’s a difference. I’d hate for the dead man to accuse me of pitiful storytelling again. Your magic grew here, Savior and it latched onto the subject of your own True Love. That’s what Cora felt. That exchange and that want. It took root in him, even after you were gone.

“She believed that the dead man could do a job for me. Use his magic to help me retrieve a water that would bring my boy back. I needed magic to transport that water, and then if it didn’t work, I had his True Love power. Of course none of that was true, and the dead man was a stubborn fool.”

Emma sighs again, not sure where to look. She hates that it makes sense. She hates that she wants it to make sense even more, but she’s been on some kind of greedy kick over the last few days and a mythical, magical connection with Killian would almost be reassuring. 

The floor creaks when he moves. 

“Something about the sun, probably,” he mutters, and Emma’s laugh isn’t really that. It’s an exhale of disbelief and the absolute opposite of that. 

“Orbiting or whatever.”  
  
“It’s really not helping my non-stalker claim.”   
  
“Yeah, I’m kind of almost ok with that.”   
  
“That’s good news.”   
  
They really are very good at flirting at the most inopportune times. And the Darkness is standing up again, moving across the room with measured steps and a hint of magic that casts a shadow on the edge of Emma’s vision. 

“He’s a bit like a puppy dog, isn’t he?” the Darkness asks, and Emma doesn’t miss the acid there. He may be right and True Love may be a real thing that can alter the fate of the cosmos, but the villain of the story is very clearly starting to grow impatient with all of them. “Following you around as easily as if there’s a leash there. Doesn’t that bother you, dead man? It’s made all of this almost too easy.”

Emma lowers her brows in confusion, startled by the distinct lack of consistency in this conversation. Killian flinches, grimacing in something that might be pain. 

Of the excruciating variety. 

“Hey, hey,” Emma says, already drifting dangerously close to desperation. “What’s happening right now? Hey, look at me.”  
  
She can see every one of his teeth when he shifts his head, the cords of his neck standing out and the pinch of his forehead will probably last weeks. 

Emma hopes they have weeks. She’s suddenly not so sure. 

“C’mon, look at me,” Emma presses. She rests her hands on his chest, pulse racing under like it’s trying to prove a point. 

He might shake his head, but it’s difficult to tell, everything coming to some kind of metaphorical head and the Darkness is frustratingly silent. Emma’s eyes drag across his face, trying to find something or a clue and she can’t believe she just thought the word clue, even in her head. 

She gasps when Killian moves, wrapping his fingers around the end of his left arm and Emma wishes she’d stop just realizing things. 

It’s jarring. 

Particularly when the villain of the story has stopped being silent and started laughing again and he’s definitely taken lessons from comic books. 

“Magic,” Emma mumbles. Killian still hasn’t opened his eyes. And the Darkness is getting stronger – metaphorically and literally and it’s hard to see her own hand on Killian’s shirt. 

“Leaves a mark,” the Darkness says. His skin glitters in the shadows, a hint of light that doesn’t do much to help the twist of Emma’s internal organs. “I’d imagine feeling the loss of one’s hand when one isn’t, in fact, dead would be rather traumatic.”

He moves his eyebrows, letting them fly up towards his hairline and Emma has no idea what to do next. Her own magic feels like it’s fizzling out in her right foot. “What say you, dead man?” the Darkness continues. “Does it hurt a little bit?”  
  
There’s a muffled groan, but Emma isn’t sure if it comes from Killian or one of his uncles and she has to lean back when his head drops forward. 

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Emma chants. She also wishes she could stop lying. “Just look at me. I’m right here. You’re fine.”  
  
She casts a glance towards Ruby, not sure what she’s looking for but the edge Emma suddenly finds herself perched on feels perilously steep. Ruby does her best to mumble something against the gag, jerking her shoulders and twisting her head until the fabric falls to her chin. 

She’s definitely kicked another goon in the process. 

“God, shit, fuck,” Ruby hisses, and Shakespeare may actually snicker. “Why’d you cut off his goddamn hand? Jeez, Em, the question is obvious.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I’ve been a little busy.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Hey, over here, Dark One—”   
  
“—You know, I do have a name,” the Darkness quips, easy as ever, but Emma is far too busy trying to avoid as much of Killian as she can to be bothered with it. 

“Yeah, I genuinely do not care. Why’d you have to cut off his hand? Wasn’t he already dead?”

“Oh yes, exceedingly dead. Six feet under, metaphorically speaking. As dead as a doornail. One foot in the grave. Several other clichés. But I needed to know why Cora was wrong. I could feel it you know, when I saw him, the magic—”  
  
“—Wait, you felt it?” Emma snaps. The Darkness smirks at her. 

“I wouldn’t have trusted Mr. Teach with a task quite that critical. After all, the water was gone and I still wasn’t sure where to find you, Savior. But then Mr. Teach summoned me and what did I find? A man with True Love magic practically percolating off him and, well, True Love has to work both ways, doesn’t it? So I took a little souvenir. It’s been a rather expansive plan, dearie, I’d think you’d almost be impressed.”

“Only if you explain it.”  
  
The Darkness’ eyes, well...darken, and Emma can feel her own magic react to that, a pleasant return, although the power she can tell is simmering in the pit of her stomach isn’t particularly good. It’s anger and something drifting closer to hatred and she wants to do something, wants to destroy and ruin and—  
  
“Emma,” Killian breathes. He’s still bent awkwardly in front of her, hair hanging in the minimal space between them, and his voice is barely that, but his fingers reach for her and that may be something. 

Or everything. 

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re going to...we’re going to figure it out, babe. It’s going to be fine.”

He makes a noise at the endearment that she absolutely, positively was not planning on saying, although, to be fair, she also wasn’t planning on telling him she loved him, so Emma can’t be all too frustrated with her own subconscious. It felt kind of nice to say anyway. 

“Don’t,” he says, a contradiction she doesn’t entirely understand. “Please.”  
  
Oh. She understands. 

And the shadows on the floor are getting longer – she’s positive. 

“I’m not leaving,” Emma promises. “Right here. I’m staying right here. No more running. I wouldn't. Not...we’re going to be ok, right?”

She means it as a confirmation, but it sounds like she’s double checking too. Killian grimaces. HIs hair is matted to his forehead, moisture on his cheeks that may be sweat or tears and Emma’s fingers tingle. 

“It hurts.”  
  
“I know it does. I know. I…” Emma’s head snaps around, trying to find something, _anything_ , that will help but the Darkness is back on the couch and the goons are moving closer to them and she’s only like sixty-seven percent positive Ruby is trying to untie Nemo. 

Killian cries out, a flash of pain that Emma feels in every inch of her. His eyes fly open, not quite clear and not quite looking at her and something is very, very, inextricably wrong. 

He stumbles, wobbling on his feet as his knees buckle under him and Emma takes another step back, twisting her arms behind her. One of his uncles tries to move, but there are more punches thrown and Ruby’s heels should be marked as their own brand of weaponry and the tears on Killian’s cheeks feel as if they’re branding themselves on Emma’s soul. 

“What the hell is happening right now?” she demands. 

The Darkness giggles. Honestly. It’s a giggle and it’s horrible and horrendous and some other words that starts with the letter ‘h.’ 

Hopping off the couch, his feet barely making any noise on the carpet. They’re going to have to buy a new carpet. This one is probably marked or something now. 

And the shadows have started creeping up the wall. 

Emma can hear her pulse hammering in her ears as the Darkness moves towards her, slow measured steps that don’t match up to the sneer on his face. She ignores that for a moment, dropping to her knees instead to try and work her way back into Killian’s eye line. She can’t – his head is pressed against the floor, body taut with tension and an impossibly straight spine, a few noises every other second that sound like complete and utter agony. 

“It’s not real,” Emma says, another lie or promise she can’t keep and she doesn’t mean to gasp when he looks up at her. 

The expression there doesn’t make any sense. It’s not hatred, it’s more, the opposite of everything she’d felt during impossibly out-of-place declarations. The blue in his eyes has turned nearly black, everything a hint darker than it was a moment before. 

“You left.”  
  
Emma swallows, terror climbing up every one of her vertebrae and taking root at the base of her spine. Her eyes are ridiculously dry. It’s probably because she can’t remember the last time she actually blinked. 

“You left,” Killian says again, voice not quite as gruff as it had been. “You left. You said you wouldn’t and you did. You never came back.”  
  
“Killian, I…”   
  
“No, no, no, you left. You said you’d come back and you never did and then it was too late and everything got so quiet. It all stopped. Like I stopped. Just...drifting on waves.”   
  
Emma’s breath is coming in pants, not doing much to help the sting in her lungs and the possible crack forming in her heart. There are still tears on Killian’s face, falling over skin and into the scruff of a beard that’s become almost familiar and oddly comforting in the last few days. 

God, she wants to touch him. 

She wants to kiss him and fix this and stop whatever the hell is causing that look on his face. 

Like he hates her. 

Like he knows she’s wrong. 

“It got so quiet,” he whispers. “It was...I knew it was wrong and I...it was too late and I…”  
  
Killian trails off, face contorted in pain again. Emma’s hand darts out, a mistake and an instinct and those two words don’t seem like they should go together. 

The Darkness clicks his tongue. 

“I think,” he starts slowly, feet moving in front of Emma’s outstretched fingers, “what the dead man is trying to say is that he thought of you in his final moments. Isn’t that interesting? Some would almost say romantic.”

She doesn’t stand up easily, which is a little frustrating because Emma assumes the hero of the story should be able to support her own weight, literally and metaphorically, but she eventually gets back to her feet, rolling her shoulders and shaking her hair onto her back. 

It’s fake confidence, a mask and another, slightly more necessary, lie. And she knows she’s not fooling anyone, but she doesn’t have another plan and—

“Why’d you take his hand?”  
  
The Darkness laughs. “I needed it.”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“Several reasons. The first, and most important, was to find you. As I said, I could practically taste that magic. Sweet on my tongue as soon as I set foot on that deck. It almost made the blood less obvious.”

Emma bites on her lip to stop herself from making any noise – and the peanut gallery is doing enough of that anyway, low curses and louder grunts and Ruby’s taken one of her heels off, swatting at goon hard enough that it will definitely leave a mark. 

“There was quite a lot of blood, Savior,” the Darkness adds, nodding towards her like he wants to make sure she’s still a rapt audience. “Did you know that True Love magic has a tendency to focus itself in certain locations?” Emma shakes her head. She thinks she shakes her head. She’s not entirely sure how she’s still standing. “It does,” the Darkness guarantees. “Settles into something that’s of relative importance to the person. Of course, that’s usually the heart, but occasionally, it’s something else.”  
  
“And I couldn't take the dead man’s heart. People knew he’d left Storybrooke. He still had a family and Cora...oh Cora. She’d made so many mistakes, she severely limited my options. Luckily for her, there was another spot that felt particularly magical, maybe even more than the heart. I was pleasantly surprised.”

Emma falls over. 

It’s disappointing. 

_So I can hold your hand_. 

“His hand,” she mumbles, and the Darkness honest to God winks at her. 

“His hand. Chock full of magic. To an almost absurd degree. I knew that it would lead me to the true source of the True Love magic and, well, I’ll be blunt with you Savior, I had hoped it would lead me to you. Because, still being blunt of course, holding your True Love’s hand may be your greatest undoing.”  
  
Emma is never sure what happens next. She can feel the surge of _something_ wash over her, a snap of fingers and rush of power and every single light on the entire goddamn street goes out. 

Killian screams. 

It feels a bit like being thrown into boiling pitch, every single one of Emma’s nerve endings jolting under her skin until she’s certain she’s being ripped apart at the seams and nothing has ever felt worse. Her head is on a swivel, looking for an ally or a friend or those people from her dream that she’s fairly certain she understands now, but there’s only darkness and a hint of laughter that lingers on the edge of everything. 

She crawls forward, trying not to get too close to Killian while also getting close to Killian. 

His whole body is shaking, vibrating with pain and the distinct feeling of being alone and trapped in that house for the rest of his life. 

“Killian,” Emma breathes, but he doesn’t look at her. She’s not sure he even realizes she’s there. “Killian, please! I’m...here. I’m not going anywhere. This isn’t real. None of it is real.”  
  
“Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that Savior,” the Darkness contends. “Because, you see, having that little bit of the dead man in my possession has made it very easy to get, well, forgive the pun, but to get a hand on that same dead man. He’s not magic. He’s been holding onto it, trying to remember and linger in it, a hint of a memory I’m certain was very comforting in his final moments. Did you think of her when you died, dead man?”   
  
The question hangs for a moment and Emma can’t hear Killian breathing. Until she hears him speaking. “That was…” he mutters, every letter an obvious pain, “all...that was all…”   
  
“That’s what I thought,” the Darkness says. “Would you look at that, Savior? You’re right smack dab in the middle of both of the dead man’s worst moments. Losing his brother and losing himself. And now I’ve got that as well. Right in the palm of my hand. Or his hand? Ah, the specifics don’t matter.”   
  
“Speak goddamn English,” Emma shouts. 

The smile disappears. Any sense of polite disappears. And Emma sees the Darkness for what he is, just that. The villain of the story and a man who’d stop at nothing for his magic and his power and the chance to have what he’d already lost. 

“I can control him,” he says softly. “Twist those feelings, that hint of magic to my own being. That’s why he had to know what you’d done to his brother. To clear your heart and purify your magic and make him absolutely, completely mine. Because you see, Savior, True Love is a two-way street, but I’ve just washed out his side of the road. You’ll still feel it, and he’ll have wisps of it, when I let him. So you’ve got one option now. Help me, bring back my son and, occasionally, I’ll let your dead man remember you.”  
  
“Or?”   
  
“Or, I’ll spend the rest of eternity making him live this moment on loop. And I’ll take you without your permission.”

Emma scoffs. It’s ridiculous. Although she isn’t certain she’s ever been more pissed off, genuinely and completely furious, the kind that burns straight through her and lingers in her toes, so she figures it kind of, almost makes sense.

“Fuck you,” she sneers, gaze snapping back towards Killian. He can’t look at her. Emma licks her lips, mind racing and heart racing and the magic she’s apparently full of feels as if it’s crackling between every strand of her hair. “Killian,” she says, softer that time and she’s got half an idea that may work. “How often did you go to the hill? After, I mean. When it was...when you were a kid, after me, and after I left. Did you go to the hill a lot?”  
  
He winces. 

It’s honestly not the response she was hoping for. 

“There’s got to be something good, Killian,” Emma presses. The floor creaks underneath the Darkness’ feet. She assumes that’s a sign. This might work. “Some memory or some moment. It wasn’t all bad, was it?”  
  
He can barely shake his head, eyes screwed shut in pain, but his hair shifts slightly against his forehead and Emma’s laugh rattles out of her. “No,” he breathes. “It wasn’t.”   
  
“He went up there all the time,” another voice adds, and Emma looks up to find Nemo's eyes serious and gaze intent as Ruby tries to work the gag away from his chin. “Every other day at least. If we couldn’t find him, he was there.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
Nemo nods. “He’s got a picture of you. Stuck in the back drawer of his dresser. I know—I know he doesn’t think we realize it’s there, but, well...we knew it was there. The whole time. You’re young and you—you’re holding—”   
  
“—A stuffed animal,” Emma mutters, another nod from Nemo. 

“I won it,” Killian adds. His voice is still questionably soft, as if it’s a struggle to even open his mouth. “It was one of those fair games. Knock over the milk bottles and win a prize.”  
  
“But I thought it was fixed.”   
  
“Yelled at the guy until you turned beet red.”   
  
“I did not,” Emma argues, and she can’t believe she’s arguing with a man who’s already died and feels like he’s dying and the Darkness sounds like it’s suffocating behind her. She can see Killian’s eyes a little clearer. They’re the right shade of blue. 

He shakes his head, half a smirk and all her smile. “No, Swan. You yelled and shouted and called him a downright dirty liar and you stomped your foot.”  
  
“Yeah, that might be true.”   
  
“And he gave me another round for free.”   
  
“So you could win me a stuffed duck with a lopsided bill.”   
  
“Ah, not everything is perfect.”   
  
“It felt like it was.”   
  
Killian hums – a sound that quickly turns back into pain and Emma’s breath hitches loudly. “You still left though,” he whispers. “I never—Liam was gone and no one could ever tell me and—”   
  
“I kept those pictures too,” Emma interrupts, and the light that flares around them is practically blinding. “The duck was...I think the duck got lost somewhere between Florida and Minnesota and a string of houses, but I kept those pictures and they’re—they’re in my room. Now. I always wanted to come back. For you. Because—”   
  
She doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Eventually that will frustrate her quite a bit. Eventually that will feel like the single worst thing to ever happen to her. 

The Darkness doesn’t scream. He doesn’t roar. There’s not much more than a low growl in the back of his throat, but Emma isn’t sure she’s ever heard a more threatening noise and his eyes look almost yellow when she turns towards him. 

Not entirely of her own free will. 

She almost misses the snap of fingers, any hint of light from her or the power of True Love of _whatever_ gone in an instant and there’s a bottle of something in his hand. It’s liquid, that much she can make out, inky black and sloshing against the side of a glass vial that looks like it came straight out of an 18th century apothecary. 

It honestly may have. Emma has no idea how old the Darkness is. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” the Darkness says, deceptively even. “You’ve clearly picked the wrong option, Savior. I’d rather not spend much more time fighting against you and that stubborn streak of yours. Luckily,” he shakes the vial and Emma swears her blood runs cold, “I’ve got enough of this to keep you on your own leash for quite some time.”

He tosses the cork carelessly over his shoulder, suddenly in front of Emma and she kind of resents that everything seems to slow. 

It makes it far too obvious that Killian is also moving. 

And that there is not a single glove in sight. 

Emma shakes her head dumbly, a mumbled _no_ that barely makes it past her lips and if Killian is certain her hair is capable of reflecting the sun, then she can come up with some equally sentimental nonsense about his eyes – something about the ocean and waves and the suddenly peaceful moments after a storm has cleared. 

“No,” Emma murmurs again, the lump in her throat too large. Her heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Don’t, don’t—”  
  
“You came back, Swan,” Killian says. He smiles at her. And wraps his fingers around hers, jerking her closer to his side when the Darkness flips the vial of something towards Emma. 

Or where Emma was. 

The liquid misses her completely, body flat against Killian’s chest. She doesn’t move at first, can’t bring herself to know what is already there, but someone screams and she’s fairly certain it’s Ruby. 

Emma digs her teeth into her lip, and he’s already colder than she expected, but he’s also just as solid and certain as she always imagined he’d be and his eyes are closed when she sits up.

“Killian,” she whispers, dragging the tips of her fingers over the curve of his cheek. He doesn’t move. He won’t.   
  
Because Killian Jones is dead – and that’s not going to change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I don't decide where the cliffhangers happen. They just happen, ok. We all still good? Don't yell too loud. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I am shouting about the ACOTAR series and whining about not writing fic.


	7. Chapter 7

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-four days and, approximately...it absolutely does not matter. It feels as if her heart has shattered, a line running directly through everything, shaking and flipping it and her own breathing is ragged in her ears. 

She can’t move. She can’t stop moving. 

Her fingers trace over Killian, everything impossibly still and several other words Emma refuses to give credence to. The stubble on his jaw scrapes at the pads of fingers, the skin above it smoother than she expected it to be. 

The tiny crinkles around his eyes are still there, like he was halfway to smiling before being the world’s biggest goddamn idiot and Emma is a little disappointed in herself that she’s kind of mad. She’s kind of furious. 

“No,” Emma whispers. The word wobbles its way out of her, desperate and weak and neither one of those are particularly good words to be considering with the visual and powerful embodiment of, possibly, all the evil in the world standing a few feet away from her. 

Her fingers are still moving. 

And it’s honestly not fair that this is the moment – the chance to see and feel and commit every single touch to memory. There’s no reaction, and part of Emma’s brain, the part that’s a giant dick apparently, is quick to point out it’s because Killian is dead and died trying to save her and—

“No, no, no, no, no.”

That time the word comes out more determined, as if she’ll be able to change what she can see and feel in front of her simply by willing it so. She’s got magic. She should be able to fix this. 

She can’t understand a world where Killian Jones is dead. 

And yet.

The world does not seem to give a single fuck about what Emma Swan wants. Ever. 

She hadn’t been holding her breath, was desperate for a few extra molecules of oxygen, but the air rushes out of her in a huff, a noise she’s never made and would never like to hear again flying out of the very center of her. 

Ruby jerks her head up at the sound, eyes wide and tears obvious on her cheeks. She shakes her head slightly, an unspoken command or promise that Emma can’t possibly be expected to understand in the moment. 

And it only takes a second, but Emma suddenly realizes she isn’t actually crying. Her cheeks are painfully dry. Everything feels that way, in fact, as if she’s been standing in the middle of the desert for weeks on end and her whole being has been drained. There’s nothing, no push or pull, just an endless sense of desperation and...nothing. 

As if nothing were a feeling. 

It might be. 

“No,” Emma whispers, and she briefly wonders if she’ll ever say anything else. She wonders if she’ll ever find something worth believing in again or if everything will be one endless contradiction – dead and alive, powerful and weak, nothing and everything, all at once. 

It’s the single most depressing thing she’s ever thought. 

She swallows, licking suddenly dry lips and she knows there has to be more. The Darkness has been silent the entire time. That can’t possibly be right. 

There has to be something else. Emma has to do something else. She assumes. She can’t imagine the world will let her go this easily – let her fall off the edge and into the nothing she can see stretching out in front of her, a quiet and acquiesce that would make Killian’s eyes narrow and his lips twist and—

“Killian,” Emma breathes, head falling forward until the tips of her hair drag across his chest. 

He doesn't move. He’s dead. 

_He’s dead._

And Emma’s knees ache, pressed into the floor because of course they’d moved off the carpet and that seems kind of unfair, but that’s the trend they’re going with and the creak of the Darkness moving towards her may be the loudest thing she’s ever heard. 

She ignores it. It’s ridiculous – or at least it must be if Ruby’s exclamation is anything to go by and someone else is crying, or, possibly, two someones and if they ever get out this Emma is going to bake Nemo and Shakespeare sixteen pies every single day for the rest of her goddamn life. That only seems reasonable. 

“It’s time to stand back up, Savior,” the Darkness says. 

Emma doesn’t move. Her knees are never going to forgive her. She cups Killian’s cheek instead, thumb brushing over as much skin as she can reach and the heart she’s certain will never beat again sputters in her chest. 

Like it’s trying to prove a point. 

He’s honestly ridiculously good looking – all long eyelashes and lips that probably would have felt incredible pressed against Emma’s and the strand of hair that drapes across his forehead is going to brand itself on her memory, she’s sure. She keeps ignoring the Darkness, ignores the fluttering at the back of her skull and the hint of something that may actually be her destiny because that also seems a little absurd, bending her head instead and letting her lips ghost over Killian’s. 

It’s not enough, but nothing could ever be enough. Not really. Not when she’d waited and hoped and believed with every single inch of her for so long. So Emma lets herself have the almost, the barely there and could have been and—

“I love you,” she whispers, closing her eyes like that will make the words truer or bring him back. They don’t. She only sort of expected them to. 

The Darkness taps his foot behind her. It grates on her nerves. Emma’s nerves will never recover from the last twenty-four hours, 

She supposes she deserves that too. 

“I’m waiting, Savior,” the Darkness drawls, an impatience that lingers in the air and tastes bitter in the back of Emma’s throat. 

Standing up slowly, she refuses to acknowledge the crack of her knees and the snap of her spine. Heroes can’t possibly have joints as weak as hers. Emma licks her lips again – can’t seem to stop, and it’s a nervous, anxious habit that does not bode well for whatever she’s about to do, but she’s also got no idea what she’s about to do so maybe it doesn’t really matter. 

She turns, palms flat against the side of her jeans, to find the Darkness gazing at her with passing interest. He tilts his head slightly, hair suddenly looking greasier than it had, as if the magic had settled in every strand and Emma can’t help but recoil at the sight. He looks close to his own edge – drifting dangerously close to manic and the yellow in his eyes has gotten sharper. 

Emma digs her nails into her palms and tries to remember. 

“Something good,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the three people behind her. “There’s got to be something good.”

“There is, Emma,” Nemo promises, and she needs to stop turning away from the Darkness. Eventually that will catch up with her. Probably. God, she hopes not. 

Nemo’s smile is tremulous at best. It doesn’t match with his watery gaze at all or the shake of his shoulders that he can’t seem to stop, fingers reaching for both Shakespeare and Ruby. But he doesn’t blink and the smile gets a hint stronger the longer he stares at Emma. 

She licks her lips again. 

And the first tear that falls on her cheek is warm, another brand and feeling and Emma is pleasantly surprised that her legs don’t buckle under her. She makes that noise again, although this one may be slightly different and no less than ten-thousand times worse. Because she knows it was good and can, maybe, be good again, but not quite the same and the _barely there_ of it all feels as if it rips her in half. 

It tears at the edges of her, shadows creeping up the walls and lingering around the curve of her right sneaker. It ripples through her, settles in between every one of her ribs and wraps its way around her heart, a slight pressure that isn’t altogether unpleasant, but isn’t entirely enjoyable either. It’s not grief. It’s something deeper, something far more fundamental and, God help her, maybe a little magical. 

“It was good, Emma,” Ruby says. Her voice shakes, but her own smile is confident. Nemo tugs her hand up to brush a kiss over knuckles, a familiarity that should be impossible. 

Although, all things considered, Emma is, at least, seventy-six percent positive she’s vibrating with the power of her own magic, so, really she can’t bring herself to find anything impossible at this point. 

And she can feel the Darkness growing more and more impatient with her. 

She turns back around. 

“What was that?” Emma demands, nodding towards the barely there puddle on the ground. “What were you trying to do?”  
  
The Darkness narrows his eyes. “Have you not figured that out yet? I thought I’d made my plans rather clear.”  
  
“Humor me.”  
  
There is absolutely no humor in his answering laugh, a twist of his wrist and flick of his fingers and Emma gasps when another goddamn dead body appears at her feet. She wishes that would stop happening. 

She wishes death would leave her alone. 

“You’re going to bring my boy back,” the Darkness says evenly. “And then I’m going to take control of what should have been mine from the very beginning.”  
  
“You said you didn’t have that kind of magic, though.”  
  
“And yet I’ve got you, don’t I?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”  
  
“I’ve won, Savior! The dead man is dead. You’re alone. Again. As you were always meant to be and I’m in complete control of everything. What do you have left to fight for?” He takes a step towards her, and Emma does her best to stand up to her full height. It’d probably be more impressive if she were wearing Ruby’s heels. “There’s no point, Emma Swan. Not anymore. Not for you. So, give me what I want and, maybe, _maybe_ , you’ll be able to find some kind of purpose. There’ll be a reason the Universe gifted you this.”

He’s so close Emma is certain she can feel him – the touch of him on her skin cold enough that goosebumps explode across her arms. 

She doesn’t shiver, though, a victory that Emma is going to horde and covet and the _other_ dead body at her feet looks far more dead than she’s entirely used to. 

“How long?” she asks, and the Darkness hums in something that may actually be confusion. Her smile makes the muscles in her cheeks ache. “How long have you been trying to bring your son back? Is that—did he die before or after you twisted your own magic?”  
  
Ruby curses. 

The Darkness doesn’t react immediately. At least not verbally. But Emma can see the tension twist between his shoulders as easily as if she put it there herself, the knuckles of his fingers turning white as he clenches his fists at his side. His eyes get even thinner, barely more than slits on his face and that only serves to make him look even more reptilian. 

Like a crocodile. With particularly powerful jaws. And even more powerful magic. 

“It should have been mine,” he says, barely loud enough to hear over the ringing in Emma’s ears. “From the very beginning. The world should have—”  
  
“—What? Given you power? It did. You’ve got magic.”  
  
“Not enough!”  
  
Emma doesn’t back up – and, really, she’s got to keep better track of these small victories because she’s barely treading water in a whole sea of emotions and the body in front of her twitches slightly. 

“Oh shit,” Ruby hisses. 

Emma moves towards her on instinct, taking the hand that isn’t twisted up in Nemo’s. Her fingers aren’t warm, per se, but they’re also not dead. She’ll take it. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” Shakespeare demands, inching his chair closer to Nemo’s until the wood scrapes loudly 

Baelfire stops moving. His skin looks almost transparent now, a grey pallor to it that makes him seem less human. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t quite as ragged as the Darkness, as if they’ve been cared for – for a very long time. 

She has no idea why the realization makes her stomach clench. 

“Why did you change your magic?” Emma presses, and she’s not sure who’s squeezing whose hand tighter, her or Ruby. “If you wanted to bring your son back—”  
  
“I didn’t change my magic to bring my son back,” the Darkness screams. The words sail across the room, sharp and angry and Emma hopes there aren’t spells involved. If there are spells involved, she’s certain they’ve all just been cursed. 

It feels absurd to check that they haven’t been turned into frogs, but her eyes glance down anyway. Still human. 

Still fighting the embodiment of all evil. 

Still not entirely coping with Killian being dead. 

“Oh,” Emma says, understanding slamming into her hard enough that she has to bite back a groan. “It was before then wasn’t it? You wanted...did you want power?”

The Darkness doesn’t respond. 

“I’m going to take that as a yes, then. Alright, alright. So you were what? Born with magic? But light magic, right?” 

Still no answer. 

“Seems like another yes,” Ruby mumbles, thumb tapping absentmindedly against Emma’s wrist. 

Shakespeare hums in agreement. “Keep going, sweetheart. Look at him.”  
  
Emma’s head snaps around, and she’s got to stop gasping. It can’t be good for the overall dryness level of her lips. She doesn’t think there’s any ChapStick in her car. But Shakespeare is right – the Darkness isn’t moving, stuck in the same spot by the few pinpricks of light around him. They’re not quite bright, flickering slightly as if they’re only barely holding on to whatever is fueling them – it’s magic, it’s obvious – but they’re still there and fighting and Ruby is definitely the one who squeezes Emma’s hand that time. 

“Ok, ok,” Emma chants. “So, um...you were born with magic, but it wasn’t much, right? Or at least wasn’t enough for you. And then you...you grow up?”  
  
“Happens to the best of us,” Nemo cuts in. He winks at Emma when she glances in his direction. 

“So you grow up,” she continues, only staying in one spot because of the grip Ruby’s got on her fingers. “And you met someone and had the kid and something’s got to change. Shit, what could have changed?”  
  
Emma glances around - as if the answer will present itself suddenly and, well, it kind of does. In the form of Ruby’s fingers. 

“Oh my God,” Emma growls. “Were you some kind of wrestler in another life? What the hell was—”  
  
“Where’s the mother?” Ruby asks. 

Emma is going to have to buy stock in ChapStick to deal with her lips. 

The Darkness blinks, shoulders shifting with the force of his deep breath and the body on the ground twitches again. Emma can feel the rush of magic, but it’s not right. There’s too much and not enough, another strange line to walk, but she knows it won’t work. 

The magic is wrong. 

It’s not going to do anything. 

“Magic always comes with a price,” the Darkness says softly. “Always. No matter what we try and do to prevent it.”  
  
“What the hell does that mean?”  
  
“It means that there wasn’t enough. I couldn’t control what I wanted to control and I couldn’t control her.”  
  
“Do you hear yourself? That seems like a dick move.”  
  
“Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma mumbles, but she can’t actually disagree and she’s got a horrible idea of where this is going. “So, let me take a guess. You’ve got magic. It’s not much because, like you said, the world had started to try and balance itself out. So you’ve only got a tiny amount, not nearly enough to inspire much confidence or lord your power over other people and what--did she leave? Is that what happened.”  
  
Silence. 

Emma smiles.

She hates that. 

“That’s what happened, isn’t it?” she asks. “You tried to control things, tried to control your wife, so it blew up in your face and you were alone. Except you weren’t because there was—” Emma nods in the direction of the body, the _other_ body, and maybe they should just burn this entire goddamn house. That thought makes her stomach twist uncomfortably too. “You weren’t alone, but you didn’t care did you?”  
  
The Darkness shakes his head. It’s not a disagreement. It’s anger and fury and a wave of something that slams against Emma’s legs, knees buckling against the force of it. 

“Shut up,” he growls. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
“What did you give up? If all magic has a price, what was the price you were willing to pay to twist your magic? Must have been something horrible.”  
The whole word shakes. 

That’s the only reasonable explanation. Emma isn’t sure reason exists anymore. 

There aren’t any frames left to fall, but the glass on the ground shifts and the couch the Darkness had been perched on tips, a small crash that’s barely noticeable over the echo of something that sounds like everything and feels like a very large void. 

Emma assumes this is what a black hole sounds like – yanking and tugging, trying to swallow up everything in its path and hold onto it until they’re all twisted and flattened. It’s the worst, really. She should have paid more attention in science. 

“Enough,” the Darkness says. He doesn’t shout that time. The words are almost calm, except for the acid practically dripping off them. “Enough.”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, no, that’s—oh my God.”  
  
The shaking stops suddenly, quick enough that it’s almost jarring and the whiplash of everything is absolutely exhausting. Emma’s smile feels more unnatural than ever. 

“What are we missing?” Ruby asks. “I feel like we’re missing something big. And bad. Like decidedly bad.”  
  
“The worst, if I’m right.”  
  
“Well go ahead and share with the class, that’s PI’ing one-oh-one.”

Emma’s laugh feels more unnatural than her laugh. She waves her hand, a flush of power that doesn’t quite tickle but feels warm and confident and the lights that are hanging around the Darkness flare to life. There are several curses from several different people mumbled behind her, maybe even a few of the goons. 

She’d kind of forgotten about the goons. 

Emma has to wiggle her fingers – the ones not still tied up with Ruby’s – trying to focus the power she can feel simmering in the pit of her stomach She bobs on the balls of her feet, hoping the sound crackling at the ends of her hair isn’t actually electricity. 

That would be almost too normal, though. It’s not electricity, it’s magic and strength and light, a positivity that may be misplaced, but is also necessary and Emma’s neck aches when she twists around and the scene behind her hasn’t changed. There’s still a dead body she wishes weren’t dead behind her, but that same body promised more than she’d ever expected to hear and she meant every single she’d told him in the last few days. 

And then some. 

Because he’d come back too. 

She knows exactly what the Darkness did to his magic. 

“How did you kill him?” Emma asks, letting her fingers press into the back of Ruby’s palm. “That’s what you did, isn’t it? Killed your son thinking it would help your magic grow?”

Ruby sounds as if she’s choking. “Wow, you weren’t kidding about the absolute worst thing, were you?”  
  
Emma shrugs. And the Darkness looks like he’s turned into a statue. He doesn’t move any of his limbs, still as marble and rough as something more abrasive than marble and Emma really needs to remember something about rudimentary science. 

He makes plenty of noise though – a low grumble in the back of his throat that is probably meant to be menacing, but Emma’s run the gamut of feelings and she’s tired of being scared. She’s positive she’s right. 

“How did you imagine that would work?” Emma presses. “Did you just—I mean, did you just kill him? Like, I don’t know, what happens in mythical times? Was there a sword involved?”  
  
Ruby scoffs. “Maybe a lance? That’s properly ancient, right? Oh shit, Dark One, were you a knight at some point?”  
  
“No, no,” Shakespeare argues. “That can’t possibly be right. Knights are always pure of heart.”  
  
“Or so the stories would have us believe,” Nemo adds, and the whole thing is equal parts absurd and nice and Emma’s fingers are still almost vibrating with the force of her magic. 

The Darkness doesn’t move. 

“How did you kill him?” Emma asks. “It must have been something bad if it helped you twist your magic like that.”

She does her best to stay patient, waiting for a response or an explanation that won’t make her skin crawl. That feels a bit like wishful thinking though and the Darkness’ laugh starts out quiet. 

That doesn’t last long. 

It grows louder – manic and grating as he steps back into Emma’s space. She blinks, trying to block out the shadows at the edge of her vision and Ruby mumbles something that tries to be encouraging. Or a few more pirate-themed curses. 

“You said true love liked to linger in certain places didn’t you?” Emma presses. “That it takes root and grows and—oh my God, his heart. Your son's heart!”  
  
No answer. Again. 

Emma’s pulse thunders in her veins, certainty she doesn’t want and confidence she desperately needs. “I don’t--I don't think I understand how that works. Ok, so…” She glances back at Ruby, a distinct lack of color in her partner’s face. “Do you think he ate it? Like..a vampire? Blood power or—”  
  
“—Blood magic is a thing,” Shakespeare says, like it’s fact and Emma’s teetering on the edge of insanity again. 

Ruby shakes her head. “No, no, it’s got to be something other than. And you’ve got to keep thinking positive thoughts, Em. I think your magic’s keeping him contained for now.”  
  
Emma hums in confusion and her neck is not going to be able to stand up to much more of this. She snaps back around – the Darkness twisted slightly, arm lifted like he was getting ready to do something particularly nefarious, but the pinpricks of light around him have multiplied and they’re brighter or stronger and Emma squeezes her hand again. 

For reassurance. Or magic. Or whatever. 

“Ok, ok, so let’s rule out blood magic,” Emma continues. “Did you think you had True Love? Is that what it was? You were looking for True Love, trying to grow your magic, get stronger and—oh, so you thought you could take his heart! Your son’s heart? How does that—shit, how does that even work?”  
  
“You could do it too, Savior,” the Darkness says. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper or a whimper. His eyes, however, are strong as ever, dark and menacing despite the light lingering just over the edge of his shoulder. “It’s basic magic. I explained to Bae. Told him I’d be able to right it once I was strong enough, but I needed that emotion. I needed his belief. That I could do something. That I could be more.”

Emma does her best to process that, but she’s a normal human and this still makes less than any sense. Until. “Oh shit,” she chokes out. “You tried to pull his love for you...out of him? Oh my God, oh my God. That’s...that’s barbaric.”  
  
“It was a price, Savior. And one I was willing to pay.”  
  
“But it didn’t work!”  
  
“Yet. It didn’t work yet. That’s where you come in.”  
  
“It’s because it wasn’t True Love,” Nemo says suddenly. Emma will have to employ a personal chiropractor by the end of all this. “Was it? You thought, well, you explained it. You’d been looking for True Love for a very long time. Because you gave up your son to be stronger. You thought you’d be able to cheat the system. That’s not how it works. The world fought back against you.”

The scream the Darkness lets out is not human. And, really, that makes sense because Emma is beginning to think the Darkness isn’t very human anymore. 

He’s the lack of all of that – empathy and understanding and love. Above everything else, he’s distinctly lacking in love. And the thought makes Emma shake slightly, the pity she feels rippling through every inch of her decidedly misplaced, all things considered. 

She can’t help it. She pities the thing in front of her, can’t understand the thought process that led him to this moment. And she knows what she’s got to do. 

He can’t be there anymore. 

Because he won’t stop. He’ll wait and he’ll find someone else and—

“You overestimated your own power didn’t you?” Emma asks conversationally, flashing a smile Ruby’s direction when she tugs her hand back to her side. “You take your son’s heart. You grow your magic and twist and it and become something...else, something you’re certain will make you more powerful. But it didn’t, did it? It just made you,” she shrugs, impossibly casual with far too many dead bodies nearby, “lonely. That’s what you are. You’re lonely and you’re desperate. And I’m not anymore.”  
  
Someone whoops. 

It’s definitely Ruby. Emma grins. 

“Did you think you’d be able to use your own True Love to bring him back?” Emma mutters, and she’s pacing now, drifting back towards Killian like there are those same magnets involved. God, she hopes so. 

She doesn’t want that to disappear. 

The magic in her veins practically sings, roaring to life and making Emma’s hair shift slightly on her shoulders – life in every inch of her. The irony of it all is almost palpable. 

“It should have,” the Darkness whispers. “I paid the price. I gave up my son for my power and he—he understood.”  
  
“You’ll need to practice that again if you want to make it sound believable.”  
  
“He did!”  
  
“Was he scared?” Emma asks, the tears on her cheeks not for her or what she’s lost. They’re for what everyone else has lost, the reach of the Darkness and the tendency of evil to, well, be evil. They’re regret and mistakes and every single secret any of them have ever kept. “When you tried to tell him it’d be worth it. That his sacrifice would mean something and he’d come back? Do you think he believed you?”  
  
The Darkness exhales, head falling forward. “He knew. He knew what it would take.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
Her question hangs there – the crux of it all and the turning point and Emma wipes her tears away with the back of her hand. The magic there is warm against her cheek. 

“You couldn’t have, could you? To know what the price really would be. To understand what you’d be giving into. I do, though, and I’m not giving into it. I’m not—I won’t go with you and I won’t help you. This is...you’ve twisted and turned things and ruined lives, but nothing has been as bad as what you’ve done to yourself.”

She takes a deep breath, shaking her arms at her side. The magic has its own pulse now, twisting in between her fingers and lingering at the back of her heels. It’s almost excited, ready to do what it was meant to from the very beginning and Emma doesn’t turn when she hears the grunts behind her. 

She doesn’t take her eyes away from the Darkness. 

Emma steps forward, the man in front of her shaking under the weight of her gaze and the light around him. She smiles. 

“You have to realize that,” she says. “You’ve stumbled into your own hole. Dug your own grave. All of that. Every cliché either one of us could possibly come up with. How long has it been since you’ve believed in something? It must be a lifetime. Sounds depressing.”  
  
“You would know, Savior. All those could have beens. You’ve pushed people away with both hands, so certain you’re wrong. That you don’t deserve it.”  
  
"That’s true. I...I did. I ran and ran and was positive I shouldn’t have been the way that I am. But that doesn’t change anything. Because I never really forgot and I’ve never—listen, it’s one of those clichés isn’t it? I don’t want the world, but I’ll be damned if you get it.”

The Darkness sneers, teeth bare and the growl in the back of his throat is probably supposed to sound menacing. That kind of misses the mark when it only makes Emma laugh.

She shakes her head, another step forward and the light sitting in the palm of her hand when she snaps her wrist is a pleasant surprise. 

“Huh,” she says, glancing back at Ruby. “That’s a surprise.”  
  
“It’s impressive,” Ruby nods. “What are you going to do with it? Oh, oh, can we throw it at the bad guy’s face?”  
  
“Seems to make us kind of like the bad guy, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Eh, he did threaten to control you and your magic and try to take over the entire universe so he could get his dead kid back, so you know—”  
  
“—And he killed our kid,” Shakespeare adds. “More than once. Seems like plenty of reason to destroy him.”  
  
Emma shakes her head again – although something very particular happens to a variety of her internal organs at _our kid_. The light in her hand grows brighter, a groan from the Darkness that is, quite obviously, because of it. 

“That’s kind of interesting, isn’t it?" Emma muses. "You don’t…” She brandishes her hand, the Darkness stumbling backwards to try and avoid it. “Well, that answers that question. I’d rather not destroy you. I don’t—I’ve had this power my whole life. The life and the death and the magic, but I’ve never wanted it. And I’ve never wanted to alter the universe, but it’s got to be more than that, isn’t it? Because you do. 

“You want to change things and ignore the balance of it all and the Universe kind of hates that. I can feel it. How much it rejects you and detests you. And you know it. That’s why it’s twisted you around like this. And that’s why I’m here. To stop you. I can. I can keep it all balanced.”

Emma flips her wrists again, working on instinct and whatever magic operates on. The light around her surges – as if several electric fields have exploded and the noise is almost overwhelming. 

It takes everything in her to stay upright, gulping in breaths of air. Everything feels warm and bright and, at first, Emma can’t figure out what that sound is. She wishes she didn’t as soon as she realizes what it is. 

The Darkness has fallen to his knees, prostrated on the floor with his hands wrapped over his head. He’s shaking like several metaphorical leaves, nails digging into the hair that suddenly looks like it’s producing its own grease. 

Or letting go of its magic. 

That makes a little bit more sense. 

In a moment that makes absolutely no sense. 

“What the—” Emma starts, wavering between moving towards him and sprinting away. The chair behind her scrapes when Ruby moves it, pushing off several goons to tug Emma back to her side. “That’s gross. Did I—”  
  
“I don’t think so, Em,” Ruby mutters. She can’t quite mask the fear in her voice though. “You’ve got to keep going. It’s...the light and the, oh shit—”  
  
“—Oh God, I’ve got to touch him, don’t I?”  
  
“You’re a really good PI now.”  
  
Emma lets out a watery laugh and she doesn’t know if the tears on her cheek are new or have, simply, just lingered there. “I can’t believe you’re making jokes.”  
  
“Hey, if you got away with flirting at crime scenes, then I can certainly make some jokes. Give and take or whatever.”  
  
“Yeah, whatever,” Emma mumbles. The Darkness is still groaning, wincing every time a ray of light graces over him.

“It was stupid how obviously in love with you he was.”  
  
Emma’s eyes fly into her hairline. “Is that emotion, I hear?”  
  
“And, probably, what you need to save the world. He knew what he was doing, Em. And he did it anyway. So did you. Honestly. I was super pissed about it—”  
  
“—Are we seriously doing this now?”  
  
“I mean we wouldn’t be if you stopped interrupting me,” Ruby reasons. “I think we’ve got time. Your light or inherent goodness or whatever is taking care of things for a second. What I’m getting at is you both knew what you were doing when you made your choices. Not like our resident villain here.”  
  
Emma doesn’t want to argue. She isn’t sure if she’s even got time to argue, but—”That’s not entirely true,” she says. “I...the whole thing was so unbelievably selfish. I knew what would happen if I kept Killian alive and I couldn’t—” She has to swallow, blinking back tears and greed in equal measure. “It didn’t make sense for him to be dead.”  
  
“Has it occurred to you that he wasn’t supposed to be at that point?”  
  
“What?”

Ruby clicks her tongue, kicking back when a goon tries to lunge towards them. “We had to figure out what was going on with him. Who hired him and why they’d killed him and what they were trying to do. You keeping Jones alive led you right here. To this moment. Defeating ultimate evil and saving the world.”  
  
Emma’s jaw drops. It’s kind of lame, honestly. And Ruby’s grin has a distinctly wolfish tinge to it. 

“I’m very good at what I do,” she shrugs. “You weren’t trying to take over the world, Em. You could have. This entire time. You could have played God and—shit, what did the Dark One say?”  
  
“Changed the fates of the world,” Nemo supplies, standing as well and shoving a goon back into the corner of the room. “You never did, Emma. You only ever loved. He knew you loved him. Even when he didn’t want to remember it.”  
  
“And he never really wanted to forget it,” Shakespeare smiles. “I’d imagine that’s how True Love is supposed to work.”

Emma hums – not sure what’s happening to, possibly, her entire soul, but it kind of feels like flying or what she’d always imagined flying would be. Or, more specifically, it feels like racing down the hill, wind in her hair and a smile on her face and she doesn’t lick her lips before turning back towards the Darkness. 

He looks lesser, somehow, like he’s falling into himself or that black hole she’d been considering before. There’s still a slight tremor to him, sobs shaking their way out of him and one of his hands has started fisting the carpet underneath him. 

The sweat at his temple isn’t that. Emma knows it. It’s power, falling off him in waves and several other water-based metaphors. 

Crouching down, Emma’s hand lingers in the air in front of her. There’s still a light hanging around her, as if she really is phosphorescent, but the magic in her feels as if it’s settled slightly, accepted its job and its purpose and the Darkness audibly winces when she shifts on her heels. 

“You can’t do this anymore,” Emma says, a note of sadness in her voice. “You can’t be this anymore. It’s not...it’s not right. And it never was. It was never going to work.”  
  
He groans when he tries to lift his head, like the weight of it is suddenly more than he can bear. Emma can barely make out his eyes, but there’s a hint of something in his gaze that is clinging on – a tinge of yellow and a dash of hatred and she’s not entirely surprised when he snaps his jaws at her. 

Like the goddamn crocodile. 

“No,” Emma says. “It’s not going to work. I was never going to go with you. No matter what you’d done or who you took. Because they’ve never really been gone. They never forgot. And neither had I. Even when I wanted to. Even when I thought I had to. So you can’t stay here. The world won’t accept it.”

She exhales slowly, fighting the urge to close her eyes as she reaches her hand forward. The Darkness’ skin is clammy under her touch, magic pooling under his clothes and at the curve of his chin. Emma holds her breath, doing her best to push her own magic out the tips of her fingers and the light that surges out of her is almost blinding. 

It takes forever and happens far too quickly, another contradiction that makes perfect sense. And the Darkness doesn’t scream. He doesn’t make any noise. But his gaze meets Emma, the yellow fading and the emotion disappearing and he seems to deflate in front of her – as if he’s a balloon that’s been popped or a line of milk bottles that have been knocked over. 

His eyes close. 

Emma counts to ten in her head, only a little worried that something is going to sneak up on her or inform her that she’s got to do something else. She counts to twenty. And thirty-five. There’s nothing. There’s only light and, now, three dead bodies and the magic thrumming in her veins. 

The floor creaks when Ruby moves, the hand that lands on Emma’s shoulder nearly on the wrong side of too tight. 

“So, uh,” she starts. “What happens now?”  
  
“I have absolutely no idea,” Emma answers honestly, and the laugh she’s met with sounds decidedly out of place. 

Particularly when the house starts to shake again. 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Shakespeare groans, Emma scrambling back to her feet and thrusting her hands out in front of her. 

There’s no darkness though, no trace of shadows, just more light and something that smells like triple berry pie. Something that smells like home. And love. 

And the faces that appear in front of Emma’s eye line are familiar and not, corporal and not and, eventually, she’d love if something were just simple. She assumes dealing with ghosts can’t ever be simple. She hopes ghosts isn’t an offensive term. 

“Whoa,” Ruby mutters. 

Emma rolls her shoulder, trying to get Ruby’s hand off and it absolutely does not work. If anything she holds on tighter. Maybe ghosts is the right term. “Are you seeing this?” Emma asks brusquely. “I’m not actually going crazy?”  
  
“If you’re asking me if I’m seeing the three people who just teleported into this living room, then, uh...yeah, we may both be crazy.”

“Oh ok, good good. It’d be weird if we saved the world and then I was the only one who immediately went crazy.”  
  
“Seems like it’d be a jerk move by the world.”  
  
The woman with the pixie cut and a cardigan that looks incredibly soft shakes her head. The man is smiling. And the other women – Emma can’t quite bring herself to look at the other woman, not sure what she’ll do if she does. Probably collapse on the floor. And sob. 

For days. On end. 

And she isn’t entirely surprised when the other woman speaks first. 

“You’re not crazy, Emma,” Ingrid says. “The opposite, in fact.”  
  
“What’s the opposite of crazy?”  
  
“This isn’t all in your head, sweetheart. It’s not a dream. It’s very much real life and you very much just saved the world.”  
  
“Although some of it was a dream,” the man adds softly, moving closer to her and the air doesn’t turn cold the way Emma expects it to. If anything, it warms slightly, like she’s been wrapped in a blanket and tucked into bed after eating her weight in pie and a variety of other baked goods. “It was the only way we could figure out to help. Not always easy to cross the planes like that, but you helped.”  
  
Emma blinks. “What?”  
  
“Helped,” the dark-haired woman says. “Always. That’s—that’s what your magic is, Emma. It existed across the planes of reality, could criss-cross and move with ease. It drew us to you when you needed us.”

“And who...who exactly are you?”  
  
“I think you’ve figured that already.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s kind of why I think I’m crazy.”  
  
Ingrid laughs, the smile on her face making her eyes crinkle slightly and she doesn’t look any different than she did the last time Emma saw her. “I wouldn’t, would I?” she asks, a response to a question Emma hasn’t voiced. Or can’t. Probably the second one. “We’ve been waiting, Emma. Hoping and believing and trying so hard to be there when you needed it. The restaurant is gorgeous, by the way. Although you could probably use some more help on the waitstaff.”  
  
“I’ve been a little busy.”  
  
“That wasn’t a suggestion to take out a classified ad.”  
  
“Are you speaking in code?” Emma quips, entirely out of place sarcasm that Ingrid seems entirely prepared for. 

The dark-haired woman shakes her head again. “You could do it, Emma. Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It got all twisted and turned and you’ve unknotted most of it. This is the last part of the puzzle.”  
  
Emma considers that for a moment – eyes flashing back to the man behind her and the pang she feels in her chest doesn’t feel entirely magical. It feels like want and need and a slew of other words she’d done her best to avoid most of her adult life. 

It feels like...everything. 

“It’s not greedy, sweetheart,” the man says, ducking into her eye line and ghosting his fingers over her cheek. That’s the wrong word. She can almost feel it. She wants to feel it. “You’re allowed to love. Encouraged even.”  
  
“And you always loved that boy,” Ingrid adds. Her eyes flit towards a clearly stunned Shakespeare and Nemo. “Took forever to get her come home every night.”  
  
“You get to be happy, Emma,” the dark-haired woman continues, and for half a second Emma lets herself think that _other_ word and quasi titles and then it’s all her brain can latch onto. 

Mom and Dad and Ingrid and a family she’d never forgotten about. Even when she wanted to. 

Her mother smiles at her. 

It may be the nicest thing that’s ever happened to her. Until. Her mother takes another step forward, something shimmering at the edge of her and Emma gasps when she feels the hand that lands on her cheek. 

It’s warm. 

“We’ve always loved you,” she whispered. “That’s not going to change. But you’re not alone anymore either, Emma. You don’t have to be.”

Emma’s exhale shakes its way out of her, head falling forward onto something incredibly and impossibly solid. She has no idea how she stands there, but there’s more movement and a hand on the back of her head, Ingrid’s fingers rubbing and down Emma’s spine the same way they had when she was seven and broke her wrist falling off the monkey bars at school. 

“You can do it, Emma,” her father promises. 

“Ghost-dad is definitely right,” Ruby adds, drawing several stunned expressions from people who are both alive and not. She rolls her eyes. “Oh, what? He says it and it’s supportive and I say it and suddenly it’s not cool? That’s lame.”  
  
Emma makes a ridiculous noise – scratchy in her throat, but the emotion lingering in the back corners of her brain is definitely hope and her parents are still smiling at her. 

_Her parents are still smiling at her._

“Emma,” Shakespeare whispers, eyes red with tears and some more that haven’t fallen yet. “Please. If you—please try.”  
  
She shakes her head slowly, tugging her lip behind her teeth. “I don’t...how can I do that? The rules were always second touch death. Forever. I mean—” Emma turns to Ingrid. “I wasn’t ever trying to—”  
  
“I know,” she interrupts. “I’ve always known that Emma. So answer me one question, do you?”  
  
“Do I what?”  
  
Ruby sticks her whole tongue out when she gags. “Are you kidding me? This is basic, fundamental love stuff!”  
  
“Lording facts over people when you’re trying to control the situation,” Emma mumbles. “That’s still incredibly unhelpful.”  
  
“Oh my God, kiss the dead guy!’

“Wow, that’s not exactly subtle, was it?” Emma’s father asks, drawing a laugh out of her mother and this is ridiculous. The Darkness and his son are still on the floor. 

Ruby clicks her tongue. “In case you haven’t noticed, subtlety is not exactly my strong suit. Emma, we are wasting time here. That’s what it is, isn’t it? You’ve got to True Loves kiss him!”  
  
Emma is sure there is a reason that won’t work. She’s positive. 

Because this is the real world and she owns a pie restaurant that she will, eventually, have to open and they are normal people with normal wants and normal desires and—

“Oh damn, that makes total sense,” Emma says, not quite grumbling her agreement because she’s not sure she wants anything more than to kiss Killian Jones. She takes another absurdly large breath, nodding once, twice, and again until her hair threatens to find its way into her own mouth. “Yeah, ok.”  
  
“You can do it, Emma,” Ingrid says. “That’s what your magic is. Light and hope. And everything good in the world.”  
  
“Sounds kind of like a Hallmark card.”  
  
“Or happily ever after.”  
  
“Is that how it’s going to work?”  
  
“Only one way to find out.”

Emma chuckles – a bit of cynicism hanging on, but she moves anyway, dropping to her knees next to Killian. The whole thing is absurdly fairy tale, even with unforgiving wood under her knees. She brushes the hair away from his forehead, a measured movement that belies how hard her heart is hammering against her rib cage. 

Everything seems to still for a moment, the only sound Emma’s breathing. 

She licks her lips. And not for any other reason except some possibly misplaced vanity. It seems wrong to kiss her True Love with chapped lips. 

Emma leans forward slowly, careful not to rest too much of her weight on Killian, but she can’t help the hand that rests on his chest. She wants to feel all of him. She wants all of him. Full stop. 

“I love you,” she whispers, pressing her lips lightly to his. 

She doesn’t push at first, just lets herself linger in his space and around him, lets everything wrap around her and work into her and the magic that’s just worked so hard to save the entire universe roars to life in between Emma’s ears. 

And that’s all it takes. 

It’s like hearing a light switch on. Or walking back into a familiar space. It’s like coming home. 

There’s a flash and a pull in the very center of her and Emma knows. She feels it. 

Emma grunts when Killian shifts, trying to sit up or stand up and none of it works because she's still got her hand digging into him. So he gets creative. And eventually she’ll have to tell him how much she appreciates that. 

His left arm wraps around her middle, twisting her and tugging her flush against his chest. His other hand flies into her hair, fingers carding through strands and wrapping around her neck, making sure Emma can’t pull away from his mouth. 

As if she would. 

Killian’s tongue brushes over her lower lip, Emma’s mouth opening against him. He makes a noise at that, a sound she’s already filed away for moments when it feels as if everything else is impossible and dark and not getting her hands on him suddenly seems like the most ridiculous thing she could ever be doing. 

Emma shifts, slinging her leg over Killian until she’s more or less straddling him and the propriety of True Love's kiss is a lesson she’s never bothered learning. She pushes her fingers into his hair, nails scraping lightly against the back of his head and rocking against him as if there’s an actual tide involved. There’s far too much skin and Emma briefly wishes she had more limbs to touch all of it, but then her only thought is about whatever Killian does against the side of her neck, mouth dropping down to press kisses there as well. 

She may honestly shiver. 

They don’t stop for what feels like several lifetimes – and Emma isn’t sure she’ll ever argue that because it’s everything she thought it would be and even more. He’s so goddamn warm under her, alive and meeting her kiss for kiss, move for move and—

“Is this real?” Killian asks gruffly. 

Emma leans back, the hand against her skin making her wonder just how hard it is to actually teleport two human beings who are absolutely wearing too much clothing. She nods. “Yeah. Really real.”  
  
He kisses her again. And it’s not the same as it was before. It’s harder and heady and some other word that’s a synonym of those words and Emma groans against him, more movement and another rock and if they don’t leave soon—

“I heard you,” Killian says, mumbling the words against her mouth. “I was...where was I?”  
  
Emma glances around – as if the quasi ghosts behind her will explain something else, but there’s nothing there and no other bodies. Her jaw drops. “Gone as soon as you guys started—”  
  
Ruby explains, waving both her hands awkwardly in front of her. “Super psyched you’re not dead forever, Jones.”  
  
“Yeah, me too. Swan,” he continues, nosing at her cheek and she hopes he never stops touching her. “I heard you, love. I was—everything was dark, but I wasn’t...it wasn’t bad. It was..” She can see the muscles in his throat shift when he swallows, teeth digging into his lip and Emma doesn’t think much before brushing her thumb over it. “Liam was there.”  
  
She’s very glad she’s sitting down. 

Killian smiles, quick enough that Emma wonders if she imagines it, but he kisses the edge of her chin and maybe that’s better. “He wouldn’t let me leave. Kept trying to talk to me and get me to remember things. Stuff we’d done when we were kids and—”  
  
He cuts himself off, presumably when Emma’s jaw cracks.  
  
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “Oh—I get it. I...it was all of them. Because, oh my God.”  
  
“Share with the class,” Ruby mumbles. She’s dropped onto the floor as well, sitting cross-legged with her back pressed against Nemo’s bent legs. 

“True Love is a two-way street. And that’s what, that’s what my parents—”  
  
“—Wait, what?” Killian interrupts sharply, Ruby waving a frustrated hand towards him. 

“You can get caught up later. This, oh shit, Em, this makes sense.” 

Emma hums, eyebrows lifted because, well, it does. “They said my magic could cross planes, draw them to me when I needed them. So it did for Killian too. It kept him from—I don’t know, moving on and helped me remember what was good and important and real and, oh do you think my magic knew it could bring him back?”  
  
“At this point, I am not surprised by anything, honestly.”  
  
“Yeah, me either,” Emma agrees. She’s balanced on Killian’s thighs now, the fingers in his hair moving without realizing as he ducks his head to press a kiss to her shoulder. “I um,” she mumbles. “I am—did Liam, say anything…”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “Not in the way that you’d think. He told me he was proud of me. That he knew what I could do and that I had to stop waiting for him to come back.”  
  
“I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I know you are, love. And so did Liam. It was never your fault.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“—No, Emma. It’s...I am here because of you, twice over. And, well, if that worked both ways then that’s enough. I heard you.”  
  
“I don’t understand what that means.”  
  
“I wanted to go. I kept telling Liam I was tired and it was over and he wouldn’t let me. Stubborn git.” Emma’s laugh gets muffled when she buries her face against Killian’s neck, but there are more kisses pressed to the top of her hair and fingers drifting under the edge of her shirt and she smiles against his skin. “Anyway,” Killian continues. “He wouldn’t let me leave. Told me there was more to it and just to stay patient and that’s when I heard you. You told me you loved me and I could—I could feel it, Emma. You’re a much better kisser now than when you were nine.”

She laughs again. And cries. And slings her arms around Killian, all but slamming her lips against his. He doesn’t argue. 

She hadn’t really expected him to. 

“I love you too,” Killian says, more words pressed against her cheek and the bridge of her nose and if they never get off the floor, Emma won’t argue. He kisses her like he’s following a map, doing his best to cover as much of her face as possible while his fingers dance over the curve of her waist. 

“Do you want to go eat some pie or something?” Emma asks. “Maybe, you know...live happily ever after?”  
  
Killian beams. “I’d like nothing better.”

* * *

They do, eventually, get off the floor, but Emma can’t seem to bring herself to move more than a few inches away from Killian. He keeps squeezing her hand, an arm around her shoulders and kisses pressed wherever he can reach. 

It makes Ruby gag, but Nemo and Shakespeare look torn somewhere between understandably overwhelmed and surprisingly approving and Killian apologizes to them, no less, than forty-six times. They hug him for, at least, forty-six seconds straight. 

Ruby offers to get them a hotel. 

“We’ll use some of Cora’s reward money,” she shrugs, a flash of a smile and more hugs and a copious amount of pie. “And, uh, I don’t want yours, either.”

They hug her in response. 

And do leave eventually – laden down with pies because Emma’s rid the world of inherent darkness, but she also feels kind of guilty about turning their house into some kind of murder hot bed – leaving Emma and Killian sitting in the middle of her restaurant with the chance at everything hanging in between them. 

“I feel like my eyes are kind of rolling back into my head,” Emma says, always a picture of charm. “So, uh—”  
  
“—Let’s go to sleep, Swan.”  
  
She nods, not trusting herself to say anything else. They move slowly, lingering on steps with kisses that last lifetimes and it’s still not enough, but Emma is more than a little greedy, tugging on shirts and brushing over stubble and Killian’s tongue should win awards. 

Emma doesn’t say that out loud. That would probably ruin the moment. 

And she wants the moment – wants to linger in it and put down roots and several thousand vaguely romantic clichés. So she doesn’t say anything, just kicks her door closed behind her and tries not to actually gasp too loudly when Killian tugs his shirt off. 

“You’re staring, love,” Killian mutters, a note of nerves that make no sense. And Emma saw ghosts a few hours before. 

“What’s the matter?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Nuh uh, try again.”  
  
“I was dead earlier today, you know.”  
  
“Yeah, I was there,” Emma mutters, doing her best to keep her voice even. It doesn’t work, obvious as soon as Killian’s thumb tucks under her chin. “I’ve missed you so much. This whole time...I wondered and I—”  
  
“—I know, Swan.”  
  
“Then what…” And she’s a little annoyed she didn’t realize before, disappointed in herself and her own wants. “Oh, Killian,” she mumbles, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “I don’t...come here.”  
  
He doesn’t, in fact, come here. If anything, he tenses – eyes wide and a little guarded, but still ridiculously blue and Emma is certain she could willingly lose herself in them. She’s apparently a sentimental sap now. 

Her fingers don’t shake when they wrap around the end of his left arm, although he may just a bit, his quiet contradiction barely audible. That lasts as long as it takes for her to lift him to her mouth, pressing soft kisses to the blunted edge and the distinct lack of scars. 

There’s an apology in every movement and a promise in every shift, guarantees that it’s fine and what she wants and who she wants. Indefinitely. Since the very start. 

“Your skin is so soft,” Killian whispers.

“Were you thinking about the texture of my skin?”  
  
“Well...no, ah, maybe. Mostly in the way that I wondered what it would feel like to touch you. Or hold onto you. In another way that sounds less possessive than that.”

Emma scoffs, biting back a smile. “I don’t think that sounds possessive.”  
  
“Good since I was definitely aiming for more romantic. It would probably be a pretty bad set up to asking you out if you thought it wasn’t.”

“I am ridiculously in love with you,” she says, drawing a laugh out of Killian. The tears on his cheeks are out of place in a day like this, but Emma’s on some kind of roll and she relishes the salt on her tongue when she kisses them away. 

“Ridiculously, huh?”  
  
“At least. And I could be very interested in dating you. Or just...staying in bed forever.”

“At least a few days.”  
  
“Something about science experiments with my skin.”

He laughs – loud and easy and it presses against Emma like it’s marking her from the inside out. There are more kisses, ones that stretch out forever and others that are nothing more than quick presses of lips to any bit of skin available and she does her best not to melt in her own foyer when Killian’s teeth graze behind her ear. “I’d do it again,” he says, a quiet admission that makes Emma’s breath catch.  
  
“Let’s not, huh?”  
  
“We might be kind of busy for that anyway.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Do you not think we are?”

They’re moving, drifting back towards the bedroom at the end of the hall and Emma is dimly aware of the button on her jeans popping. “I’d be willing to be almost confident about it.”  
  
“Ah, sounds like a challenge.”  
  
“Yeah, well that’s because you’re a competitive weirdo.”  
  
Killian hums, more walking and stumbling and kissing. The last one is the most important. “One who loves you a ridiculous amount too,” he says. “And has very lofty goals of kissing every single inch of you.”  
  
“I’d like to see you try.”  
  
He grins – hers, exactly the way she’d always pictured it. “I can guarantee it.”

* * *

They bake pies every day. And fill napkin containers. And balance books. 

It’s domestic and wonderful and Emma kisses Killian in several different kitchens with a regularity that never fails to make her pulse sputter just a bit. It goes that way for weeks that turn to months that turn to years and Emma Swan is thirty-one years, two months, fifty-seven days and, approximately, nine and a half hours old when he kisses her back – while the front door to their restaurant swings open. 

“I’ve got news,” Ruby shouts, heels echoing on the tiled floor under her. “So if you guys are done being adorable, it might be time to make some money.”  
  
Killian shifts, tugging Emma against his chest. “What do you think, love? Do we want to make some money?”  
  
“Ah, I don’t know,” Emma says, if only to get that very particular groan out of Ruby. “Depends on the facts, I guess.”

Ruby does, in fact, make that very particular groan, grabbing a slice of pie without asking for it. “The usual. Dead body, suspicious circumstances, in need of your particular skills with the chance to let justice be served. Also we got to do this quick because I’ve got a date.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“This is not a big deal. Do not make this a big deal.”  
  
“You brought it up, Lucas,” Killian points out. 

“Her name is Dorothy. She’s a dog trainer. It is not a big deal. I just, you know…”  
  
“You wanted to tell us.”  
  
“Shut up, Jones.”  
  
“Oh, that’s nice,” Emma says, handing Ruby the fork she can’t quite reach with the counter in the way. “Alright, we’re in. Let’s go serve some justice.”  
  
Ruby rolls her eyes. “You’re hysterical.”  
  
“You say that like you don’t think I am.”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh. Time keeps on slipping or whatever.”  
  
Emma laughs, grabbing a handful of berries from the nearest bowl and they don’t use rotten fruit anymore. It’s some kind of _step in the right direction_ thing. They definitely helped set Graham up with that one customer a few months before. 

And no one argues when they get into Emma’s car – Ruby in the backseat and already on her phone with Victor, Killian’s eyes flitting Emma’s direction as soon as she turns the key in the ignition. “You ready, love?” he asks, lacing his fingers through hers. 

Emma nods. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading this story which, as always, was much longer than I remembered it being. Every comment and click and kudos has been a direct shot to my serotonin levels in these otherwise absolutely insane times, so I seriously appreciate it. Happily ever afters for everyone. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down, where I'm probably still flailing over ACOTAR, writing a spinoff to a very niche fic, and yelling about hockey.


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